The Gathering Storm

THE WHEEL OF TIME
by Robert Jordan
The Eye of the World
The Great Hunt The Dragon Reborn The Shadow Rising The Fires of Heaven
Lord of Chaos A Crown of Swords The Path of Daggers
Winter's Heart
Crossroads of Twilight
Knife of Dreams
by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson
The Gathering Storm
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors' imaginations or
are used fictitiously.
THE GATHERING STORM
Copyright © 2009 by The Bandersnatch Group, Inc.
The phrases "The Wheel of Time®" and "The Dragon Reborn™," and the snake-wheel symbol, are trademarks of Robert Jordan.
All rights reserved.
Maps by Ellisa Mitchell
Interior illustrations by Matthew C. Nielsen and Ellisa Mitchell
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jordan, Robert, 1948-2007.
The gathering storm / Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson.—1st ed.
p.
cm.—(The Wheel of time ; 12) "A Tom Doherty Associates book."
"Maps by Ellisa Mitchell; interior illustrations by Matthew C. Nielsen and Ellisa Mitchell."
ISBN 978-0-7653-0230-4 (regular edition) ISBN 978-0-7653-2416-0 (limited edition)
1. Rand al'Thor (Fictitious character)—Fiction.
I. Sanderson, Brandon.
II. Title. PS3560.O7617G38
2009035171
First Edition: November 2009 Printed in the United States of America 0987654321
2009 813'.54—dc22
FOREWORD
In November 2007, I received a phone call that would change my life forever. Harriet McDougal, wife
and editor of the late Robert Jordan, called to ask me if I would complete the last book of The Wheel of
Time.
For those who did not know Mr. Jordan had passed away, it pains me to be the one to break the news. I
remember how I felt when—while idly browsing the Internet on September 16, 2007—I discovered that
he had died. I was shocked, stunned, and disheartened. This wonderful man, a hero to me in my writing
career, was gone. The world suddenly became a different place.
I first picked up The Eye of the World in 1990, when I was a teenage fantasy addict visiting my corner
bookstore. I became a fan instantly and eagerly awaited The Great Hunt. Over the years, I've read the
books numerous times, often re-reading the entire series when a new book was released. Time passed, and
I decided I wanted to become a fantasy author—influenced, in large part, by how much I loved The
Wheel of Time. And yet, never did I think that I would one day get that phone call from Harriet. It came
to me as a complete surprise. I had not asked, applied, or dared wish for this opportunity—though when
the request was made, my answer was immediate. I love this series as I have loved none other, and the
characters feel like old, dear friends from my childhood.
I cannot replace Robert Jordan. Nobody could write this book as well as he could have. That is a simple
fact. Fortunately, he left many notes, outlines, completed scenes, and dictated explanations with his wife
and assistants. Before his passing, he asked Harriet to find someone to complete the series for his fans. He
loved you all very much and spent the very last weeks of his life dictating events for the final volume. It
was to be called A Memory of Light.
Eighteen months later, we are here. Mr. Jordan promised that the final book would be big. But the
manuscript soon grew prohibitively huge; it would be three times the size of a regular Wheel of Time
book, and the decision was made by Harriet and Tor to split A Memory of Light into thirds. There were
several excellent breaking points that would give a full and complete story in each third. You may think
of The Gathering
6
FOREWORD
Storm and its two followers as the three volumes of A Memory of Light or as the final three books of The
Wheel of Time. Both are correct.
As of this writing, I am halfway done with the second third. We are working as quickly as is reasonable,
and we don't want you to have to wait too long to get the ending we were all promised nearly twenty
years ago. (Mr. Jordan did write this ending himself before he passed away, and I have read it. And it is
fantastic.) I have not tried to imitate Mr. Jordan's style. Instead, I've adapted my style to be appropriate to
The Wheel of Time. My main goal was to stay true to the souls of the characters. The plot is, in large part,
Robert Jordan's, though many of the words are mine. Imagine this book as the product of a new director
working on some of the scenes of a movie while retaining the same actors and script.
But this is a big project, and it will take time to complete. I beg your patience as we spend these next few
years perfecting this story. We hold in our hands the ending of the greatest fantasy epic of our time, and I
intend to see it done right. I intend to remain true to Mr. Jordan's wishes and notes. My artistic integrity,
and love for the books, will not let me do anything less. In the end, I let the words herein stand as the best
argument for what we are doing.
This is not my book. It is Robert Jordan's book, and to a lesser extent, it is your book.
Thank you for reading.
BRANDON SANDERSON June 2009
For Maria Simons and Alan Romanczuk, without whom this book wouldn't have been possible
CONTENTS
MAPS..................................12-13, 442
PROLOGUE: What the Storm Means.................17
1
Tears from Steel..................................49
2
The Nature of Pain...............................64
3
The Ways of Honor...............................81
4
Nightfall.......................................92
5
A Tale of Blood..................................97
6
When Iron Melts................................112
7
The Plan for Arad Doman.........................121
8
Clean Shirts....................................136
9
Leaving Maiden.................................155
10
The Last of the Tabac.............................168
11
The Death of Adrin..............................180
12
Unexpected Encounters...........................191
13
An Offer and a Departure.........................212
14
A Box Opens...................................227
15
A Place to Begin................................234
16
In the White Tower..............................249
17
Questions of Control.............................275
18
A Message in Haste..............................285
19
Gambits......................................294
20
On a Broken Road...............................311
21
Embers and Ash................................325
22
The Last That Could Be Done......................338
23
A Warp in the Air...............................357
io
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
CONTENTS
A New Commitment.............................362
In Darkness....................................378
A Crack in the Stone.............................385
The Tipsy Gelding..............................400
Night in Hinderstap.............................420
Into Bandar Eban...............................443
Old Advice....................................457
A Promise to Lews Therin.........................468
Rivers of Shadow................................489
A Conversation with the Dragon....................512
Legends.......................................522
A Halo of Blackness.............................536
The Death of Tuon..............................550
37
A Force of Light................................562
38
News in Tel'aran'rhiod . . :.........................581
39
A Visit from Verin Sedai..........................598
40
The Tower Shakes...............................618
41
A Fount of Power...............................634
42
Before the Stone of Tear...........................654
43
Sealed to the Flame..............................664
44
Scents Unknown................................684
45
The Tower Stands...............................702
46
To Be Forged Again..............................714
47
The One He Lost................................728
48
Reading the Commentary..........................741
49
Just Another Man...............................749
50
Veins of Gold...................................755
EPILOGUE: Bathed in Light......................761
GLOSSARY...................................767
Ravens and crows. Rats. Mists and clouds. Insects and corruption. Strange events and odd occurrences.
The ordinary twisted and strange. Wonders!
The dead are beginning to walk, and some see them. Others do not, but more and more, we all fear the
night.
These have been our days. They rain upon us beneath a dead sky, crushing us with their fury, until as one
we beg: "Let it begin!"
—Journal of the Unknown Scholar, entry for The Feast of Freia, 1000 NE
PROLOGUE
What the Storm Means
Renald Fanwar sat on his porch, warming the sturdy blackoak chair crafted for him by his grandson two
years before. He stared northward.
At the black and silver clouds.
He'd never seen their like before. They blanketed the entire horizon to the north, high in the sky. They
weren't gray. They were black and silver. Dark, rumbling thunderheads, as dark as a root cellar at
midnight. With striking silver light breaking between them, flashes of lightning that gave off no sound.
The air was thick. Thick with the scents of dust and dirt. Of dried leaves and rain that refused to fall.
Spring had come. And yet his crops didn't grow. Not a sprout had dared poke through the earth.
He rose slowly from his chair, wood creaking, chair rocking softly behind him, and walked up to the edge
of the porch. He chewed on his pipe, though its fire had gone out. He couldn't be bothered to relight it.
Those clouds transfixed him. They were so black. Like the smoke of a brushfire, only no brushfire smoke
ever rose that high up in the air. And what to make of silver clouds? Bulging between the black ones, like
places where polished steel shone through metal crusted with soot.
He rubbed his chin, glancing down at his yard. A small, whitewashed fence contained a patch of grass and
shrubs. The shrubs were dead now,
17
18
THE GATHERING STORM
every one of them. Hadn't lasted through that winter. He'd need to pull them out soon. And the grass . . .
well, the grass was still just winter thatch. Not even any weeds sprouted.
A clap of thunder shook him. Pure, sharp, like an enormous crash of metal against metal. It rattled the
windows of the house, shook the porch boards, seemed to vibrate his very bones.
He jumped back. That strike had been close—perhaps on his property. He itched to go inspect the
damage. Lightning fire could destroy a man, burn him out of his land. Up here in the Borderlands, so
many things were unintentional tinder—dry grass, dry shingles, dry seed.
But the clouds were still distant. That strike couldn't have been on his property. The silver and black
thunderheads rolled and boiled, feeding and consuming themselves.
He closed his eyes, calming himself, taking a deep breath. Had he imagined the thunder? Was he going
off the side, as Gaffin always joked? He opened his eyes.
And the clouds were right there, directly above his house.
It was as if they had suddenly rolled forward, intending to strike while his gaze was averted. They
dominated the sky now, sweeping distantly in either direction, massive and overwhelming. He could
almost feel their weight pressing the air down around him. He drew in a breath that was heavy with
sudden humidity, and his brow prickled with sweat.
Those clouds churned, dark black and silver thunderheads shaking with white blasts. They suddenly
boiled downward, like the funnel cloud of a twister, coming for him. He cried out, raising a hand, as a
man might before a powerfully bright light. That blackness. That endless, suffocating blackness. It would
take him. He knew.
And then the clouds were gone.
His pipe hit the porch's floorboards, clicking softly, tossing burned tabac out in a spray across the steps.
He hadn't realized he'd let it slip free. Renald hesitated, looking up at empty blue sky, realizing that he
was cringing at nothing.
The clouds were off on the horizon again, some forty leagues distant. They thundered softly.
He picked up his pipe with a shaking hand, spotted from age, tanned from years spent in the sun. Just a
trick of your mind, Renald, he told himself. You're going off the side, sure as eggs is eggs.
He was on edge because of the crops. That had him on edge. Though he spoke optimistic words for the
lads, it just wasn't natural. Something
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
19
should have sprouted by now. He'd farmed that land for forty years! Barley didn't take this long to sprout.
Burn him, but it didn't. What was going on in the world these days? Plants couldn't be depended on to
sprout, and clouds didn't stay where they should.
He forced himself to sit back down in his chair, legs shaking. Getting old, I am. ... he thought.
He'd worked a farm all of his life. Farmsteading in the Borderlands was not easy, but if you worked hard,
you could grow a successful life while you grew strong crops. "A man has as much luck as he has seeds
in the field," his father had always said.
Well, Renald was one of the most successful farmers in the area. He'd done well enough to buy out the
two farms beside his, and he could run thirty wagons to market each fall. He now had six good men
working for him, plowing the fields, riding the fences. Not that he didn't have to climb down in the muck
every day and show them what good farming was all about. You couldn't let a little success ruin you.
Yes, he'd worked the land, lived the land, as his father always used to say. He understood the weather as
well as a man could. Those clouds weren't natural. They rumbled softly, like an animal growling on a
dark night. Waiting. Lurking in the nearby woods.
He jumped at another crash of thunder that seemed too close. Were those clouds forty leagues away? Is
that what he'd thought? Looked more like ten leagues away, now that he studied them.
"Don't get like that," he grumbled at himself. His own voice sounded good to him. Real. It was nice to
hear something other than that rumbling and the occasional creak of shutters in the wind. Shouldn't he be
able to hear Auaine inside, getting supper ready?
"You're tired. That's it. Tired." He fished in his vest pocket and pulled out his tabac pouch.
A faint rumbling came from the right. At first, he assumed it was the thunder. However, this rumbling
was too grating, too regular. That wasn't thunder. It was wheels turning.
Sure enough, a large, oxen-drawn wagon crested Mallard's Hill, just to the east. Renald had named that
hill himself. Every good hill needed a name. The road was Mallard's Road. So why not name the hill that
too?
He leaned forward in his chair, pointedly ignoring those clouds as he squinted toward the wagon, trying to
make out the driver's face. Thulin? The smith? What was he doing, driving a wagon laden halfway to the
heavens? He was supposed to be working on Renald's new plow!
20
THE GATHERING STORM
Lean for one of his trade, Thulin was still twice as muscled as most farmhands. He had the dark hair and
tan skin of a Shienaran, and kept his face shaved after their fashion, but he did not wear the topknot.
Thulin's family might trace its roots back to Borderland warriors, but he himself was just a simple country
man like the rest of them. He ran the smithy over in Oak Water, five miles to the east. Renald had enjoyed
many a game of stones with the smith during winter evenings.
Thulin was getting on—he hadn't seen as many years as Renald, but the last few winters had prompted
Thulin to start speaking of retirement. Smithing wasn't an old man's trade. Of course, neither was farming.
Were there really any old man's trades?
Thulin's wagon approached along the packed earthen road, approaching Renald's white-fenced yard. Now,
that's odd, Renald thought. Behind the wagon trailed a neat string of animals: five goats and two
milkcows. Crates of black-feathered chickens were tied on the outside of the wagon, and the bed of the
wagon itself was piled full of furniture, sacks and barrels. Thulin's youthful daughter, Mirala, sat on the
seat with him, next to his wife, a golden-haired woman from the south. Twenty-five years Thulin's wife,
but Renald still thought of Gallanha as "that southern girl."
The whole family was in the wagon, leading their best livestock. Obviously on the move. But where? Off
to visit relatives, perhaps? He and Thulin hadn't played a round of stones in ... oh, three weeks now. Not
much time for visiting, what with the coming of spring and the hurried planting. Someone would need to
mend the plows and sharpen the scythes. Who would do it if Thulin's smithy went cold?
Renald tucked a pinch of tabac into his pipe as Thulin pulled the wagon up beside Renald's yard. The
lean, gray-haired smith handed the reins to his daughter, then climbed down from the wagon, feet
throwing puffs of dust into the air when he hit the ground. Behind him the distant storm still brewed.
Thulin pushed open the fence gate, then strode up to the porch. He looked distracted. Renald opened his
mouth to give greeting, but Thulin spoke first.
"I buried my best anvil in Gallanha's old strawberry patch, Renald," the big smith said. "You remember
where that is, don't you? I packed my best set of tools there as well. They're well greased and inside my
best chest, lined to keep it dry. That should keep the rust off of them. For a time at least."
Renald closed his mouth, holding his pipe half-full. If Thulin was
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
21
burying his anvil . . . well, it meant he wasn't planning to come back for a while. "Thulin, what—"
"If I don't return," Thulin said, glancing northward, "would you dig my things out and see that they're
cared for? Sell them to someone who cares, Renald. I wouldn't have just anyone beating that anvil. Took
me twenty years to gather those tools, you know."
"But Thulin!" Renald sputtered. "Where are you going?"
Thulin turned back to him, leaning one arm on the porch railing, those brown eyes of his solemn. "There's
a storm coming," he said. "And so I figure I've got to head on to the north."
"Storm?" Renald asked. "That one on the horizon, you mean? Thulin, it looks bad—burn my bones, but it
does—but there's no use running from it. We've had bad storms before."
"Not like this, old friend," Thulin said. "This ain't the sort of storm you ignore."
"Thulin?" Renald asked. "What are you talking about?"
Before he could answer, Gallanha called from the wagon box. "Did you tell him about the pots?"
"Ah," Thulin said. "Gallanha polished up that set of copper-bottom pots that your wife always liked.
They're sitting on the kitchen table, waiting for Auaine, if she wants to go claim them." With that, Thulin
nodded to Renald and began to walk back toward the wagon.
Renald sat, stupefied. Thulin always had been a blunt one; he favored saying his mind, then moving on.
That was part of what Renald liked about him. But the smith could also pass through a conversation like a
boulder rolling through a flock of sheep, leaving everyone dazed.
Renald scrambled up, leaving his pipe on the chair and following Thulin down into the yard and to the
wagon. Burn it, Renald thought, glancing to the sides, noticing the brown grass and dead shrubs again.
He'd worked hard on that yard.
The smith was checking on the chicken crates tied to the sides of his vehicle. Renald caught up to him,
reaching out a hand, but Gallanha distracted him.
"Here, Renald," she said from the wagon box. "Take these." She held out a basket of eggs, one lock of
golden hair straying from her bun. Renald reached over to take the basket. "Give these to Auaine. I know
you're short on chickens on account of those foxes last fall."
Renald took the basket of eggs. Some were white, some were brown. "Yes, but where are you going,
Gallanha?"
22
THE GATHERING STORM
"North, my friend," Thulin said. He walked past, laying a hand on Renald's shoulder. "There will be an
army gathering, I figure. They'll need smiths."
"Please," Renald said, gesturing with the basket of eggs. "At least take a few minutes. Auaine just put
some bread in, one of those thick honey loaves that you like. We can discuss this over a game of stones."
Thulin hesitated.
"We'd better be on the move," Gallanha said softly. "That storm is coming."
Thulin nodded, then climbed up into the wagon. "You might want to come north too, Renald. If you do,
bring everything you can." He paused. "You're good enough with the tools you have here to do some
small metalwork, so take your best scythes and turn them into polearms. Your two best scythes; now don't
go skimping around with anything that's a second best or a third best. Get your best, because it's the
weapon you're going to use."
Renald frowned. "How do you know that there will be an army? Thulin, burn me, I'm no soldier!"
Thulin continued as if he hadn't heard the comments. "With a polearm you can pull somebody off of a
horse and stab them. And, as I think about it, maybe you can take the third best and make yourself a
couple of swords."
"What do I know about making a sword? Or about using a sword, for that matter?"
"You can learn," Thulin said, turning north. "Everyone will be needed, Renald. Everyone. They're coming
for us." He glanced back at Renald. "A sword really isn't all that tough to make. You take a scythe blade
and straighten it out, then you find yourself a piece of wood to act as a guard, to keep the enemy's blade
from sliding down and cutting your hand. Mostly you'll just be using things that you've already got."
Renald blinked. He stopped asking questions, but he couldn't stop thinking them. They bunched up inside
his brain like cattle all trying to force their way through a single gate.
"Bring all your stock, Renald," Thulin said. "You'll eat them—or your men will eat them—and you'll
want the milk. And if you don't, then there'll be men you can trade with for beef or mutton. Food will be
scarce, what with everything spoiling so much and the winter stores having run low. Bring everything
you've got. Dried beans, dried fruit, everything."
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
23
Renald leaned back against the gate to his yard. He felt weak and limp. Finally, he forced out just one
question. "Why?"
Thulin hesitated, then stepped away from the wagon, laying a hand on Renald's shoulder again. "I'm sorry
to be so abrupt. I ... well, you know how I am with words, Renald. I don't know what that storm is. But I
know what it means. I've never held a sword, but my father fought in the Aiel War. I'm a Borderlander.
And that storm means the end is coming, Renald. We need to be there when it arrives." He stopped, then
turned and looked to the north, watching those building clouds as a farmhand might watch a poisonous
snake he found in the middle of the field. "Light preserve us, my friend. We need to be there."
And with that, he removed his hand and climbed back into the wagon. Renald watched them ease off,
nudging the oxen into motion, heading north. Renald watched for a long time, feeling numb.
The distant thunder cracked, like the sound of a whip, smacking against the hills.
The door to the farmhouse opened and shut. Auaine came out to him, gray hair in a bun. It had been that
color for years now; she'd grayed early, and Renald had always been fond of the color. Silver, more than
gray. Like the clouds.
"Was that Thulin?" Auaine asked, watching the distant wagon throw up dust. A single black chicken
feather blew across the roadway.
"Yes."
"And he didn't stay, even to chat?"
Renald shook his head.
"Oh, but Gallanha sent eggs!" She took the basket and began to transfer the eggs into her apron to carry
them inside. "She's such a dear. Leave the basket there on the ground; I'm sure she'll send someone for it."
Renald just stared northward.
"Renald?" Auaine asked. "What's gotten into you, you old stump?"
"She polished up her pots for you," he said. "The ones with the copper bottoms. They're sitting on her
kitchen table. They're yours if you want them."
Auaine fell silent. Then he heard a sharp sound of cracking, and he looked over his shoulder. She had let
her apron grow slack, and the eggs were slipping free, plopping to the ground and cracking.
In a very calm voice, Auaine asked, "Did she say anything else?"
He scratched his head, which hadn't much hair left to speak of. "She
24
THE GATHERING STORM
said the storm was coming and they had to head north. Thulin said we should go too."
They stood for another moment. Auaine pulled up the edge of her apron, preserving the majority of the
eggs. She didn't spare a glance for those that had fallen. She was just staring northward.
Renald turned. The storm had jumped forward again. And it seemed to have grown darker somehow.
"I think we ought to listen to them, Renald," Auaine said. "I'll . . . I'll go fix up what we'll need to bring
with us from the house. You can go around back and gather the men. Did they say how long we'll be
gone?"
"No," he said. "They didn't even really say why. Just that we need to go north for the storm. And . . . that
this is the end."
Auaine inhaled sharply. "Well, you just get the men ready. I'll take care of the house."
She bustled inside, and Renald forced himself to turn away from the storm. He rounded the house and
entered the barnyard, calling the farmhands together. They were a stout lot, good men, all of them. His
own sons had sought their fortunes elsewhere, but his six workers were nearly as close to him as sons.
Merk, Favidan, Rinnin, Veshir and Adamad gathered round. Still feeling dazed, Renald sent two to gather
up the animals, two more to pack what grain and provisions they had left from the winter and the final
man off to fetch Geleni, who had gone into the village for some new seed, just in case the planting had
gone bad on account of their stores.
The five men scattered. Renald stood in the farmyard for a moment, then went into the barn to fetch his
lightweight forge and pull it out into the sunlight. It wasn't just an anvil, but a full, compact forge, made
for moving. He had it on rollers; you couldn't work a forge in a barn. All that dust could take fire. He
heaved the handles, wheeling it out to the alcove set off to the side of the yard, built from good bricks,
where he could do minor repairs when he needed to.
An hour later, he had the fire stoked. He wasn't as skilled as Thulin, but he'd learned from his father that
being able to handle a little of your own forgework made a big difference. Sometimes, you couldn't
squander the hours it would take to go to town and back just to fix a broken hinge.
The clouds were still there. He tried not to look at them as he left the forge and headed into the barn.
Those clouds were like eyes, peeping over his shoulder.
Inside the barn, light sprinkled down through cracks in the wall,
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
25
falling on dust and hay. He'd built the structure himself some twenty-five years back. He kept planning to
replace some of those warped roofing planks, but now there wouldn't be time.
At the tool wall, he reached for his third-best scythe, but stopped. Taking a deep breath, he took the best
scythe off the wall instead. He walked back out to the forge and knocked the haft off the scythe.
As he tossed the wood aside, Veshir—eldest of his farmhands— approached, pulling a pair of goats.
When Veshir saw the scythe blade on the forge, his expression grew dark. He tied the goats to a post, then
trotted over to Renald, but said nothing.
How to make a polearm? Thulin had said they were good for yanking a man off his horse. Well, he would
have to replace the snath with a longer straight shaft of ashwood. The flanged end of the shaft would
extend beyond the heel of the blade, shaped into a crude spearpoint and clad with a piece of tin for
strength. And then he would have to heat the blade and bang off the toe about halfway, making a hook
that could tug a man off his horse and maybe cut him at the same time. He slid the blade into the burning
coals to heat it, then began to tie on his apron.
Veshir stood there for a minute or so, watching. Finally, he stepped up, taking Renald by the arm.
"Renald, what are we doing?"
Renald shook his arm free. "We're going north. The storm is coming and we're going north."
"We're going north for just a storm? It's insanity!"
It was nearly the same thing Renald had said to Thulin. Distant thunder sounded.
Thulin was right. The crops . . . the skies . . . the food going bad without warning. Even before he'd
spoken to Thulin, Renald had known. Deep within, he'd known. This storm would not pass overhead then
vanish. It had to be confronted.
"Veshir," Renald said, turning back to his work, "you've been a hand on this farm for . . . what, fifteen
years now? You're the first man I hired. How well have I treated you and yours?"
"You've done me well," Veshir said. "But burn me, Renald, you've never decided to leave the farm
before! These crops, they'll wither to dust if we leave them. This ain't no southerner wetfarm. How can we
just go off?"
"Because," Renald said, "if we don't leave, then it won't matter if we planted or not."
Veshir frowned.
id
THE GATHERING STORM
"Son," Renald said, "you'll do as I say, and that's all we'll have of it. Go finish gathering the stock."
Veshir stalked away, but he did as he was told. He was a good man, if hotheaded.
Renald pulled the blade out of the heat, the metal glowing white. He laid it against the small anvil and
began to beat on the knobby section where heel met beard, flattening it. The sound of his hammer on the
metal seemed louder than it should have been. It rang like the pealing thunder, and the sounds blended.
As if each beat of his hammer was itself a piece of the storm.
As he worked, the peals seemed to form words. Like somebody muttering in the back of his head. The
same phrase over and over.
The storm is coming. The storm is coming. . . .
He kept on pounding, keeping the edge on the scythe, but straightening the blade and making a hook at
the end. He still didn't know why. But it didn't matter.
The storm was coming and he had to be ready.
Watching the bowlegged soldiers tie Tanera's blanket-wrapped body across a saddle, Falendre fought the
desire to begin weeping again, the desire to vomit. She was senior, and had to maintain some composure
if she expected the four other surviving sul'dam to do so. She tried to tell herself she had seen worse,
battles where more than a single sul'dam had died, more than one damane. That brought her too near
thinking of exactly how Tanera and her Miri met their deaths, though, and her mind shied from it.
Huddling by her side, Nenci whimpered as Falendre stroked the damane's head and tried to send soothing
feelings through the a'dam. That often seemed to work, but not so well today. Her own emotions were too
roiled. If only she could forget that the damane was shielded, and by whom. By what. Nenci whimpered
again.
"You will deliver the message as I directed you?" a man said behind her.
No, not just any man. The sound of his voice stirred the pool of acid in her belly. She made herself turn to
face him, made herself meet those cold, hard eyes. They changed with the angle of his head, now blue,
now gray, but always like polished gemstones. She had known many hard men, but had she ever known
one hard enough to lose a hand and moWHAT THE STORM MEANS
27
ments later take it as if he had lost a glove? She bowed formally, twitching the a'dam so that Nenci did
the same. So far they had been treated well for prisoners under the circumstances, even to being given
washwater, and supposedly they would not remain prisoners much longer. Yet with this man, who could
say what might make that change? The promise of freedom might be part of some scheme.
"I will deliver your message with the care it requires," she began, then stumbled over her tongue. What
honorific did she use for him? "My Lord Dragon," she finished hurriedly. The words dried her tongue, but
he nodded, so it must have sufficed.
One of the marath'damane appeared through that impossible hole in the air, a young woman with her hair
in a long braid. She wore enough jewelry for one of the Blood, and of all things, a red dot in the middle of
her forehead. "How long do you mean to stay here, Rand?" she demanded as if the hard-eyed young man
were a servant rather than who he was. "How close to Ebou Dar are we here? The place is full of
Seanchan, you know, and they probably fly raken all around it."
"Did Cadsuane send you to ask that?" he said, and her cheeks colored faintly. "Not much longer,
Nynaeve. A few minutes."
The young woman shifted her gaze to the other sul'dam and damane, all taking their lead from Falendre,
pretending there were no marath'damane watching them, and especially no men in black coats. The
others had straightened themselves as best they could. Surya had washed the blood from her face, and
from her Tabi's face, and Malian had tied large compresses on them that made them appear to be wearing
odd hats. Ciar had managed to clean off most of the vomit she had spilled down the front of her dress.
"I still think I should Heal them," Nynaeve said abruptly. "Hits to the head can cause odd things that don't
come on right away."
Surya, her face hardening, moved Tabi behind her as if to protect the damane. As if she could. Tabi's pale
eyes had widened in horror.
Falendre raised a pleading hand toward the tall young man. Toward the Dragon Reborn, it seemed.
"Please. They will receive medical aid as soon as we reach Ebou Dar."
"Give over, Nynaeve," the young man said. "If they don't want Healing, they don't want it." The
marath'damane scowled at him, gripping her braid so hard that her knuckles turned white. He turned his
own attention back to Falendre. "The road to Ebou Dar lies about an hour east of here. You can reach the
city by nightfall if you press. The shields on the
28
THE GATHERING STORM
damane will evaporate in about half an hour. Is that right for the saidar-woven shields, Nynaeve?" The
woman scowled at him in silence. "Is that right, Nynaeve?"
"Half an hour," she replied finally. "But none of this is right, Rand al'Thor. Sending those damane back. It
isn't right, and you know it."
For a moment, his eyes were even colder. Not harder. That would have been impossible. But for that long
moment, they seemed to hold caverns of ice. "Right was easy to find when all I had to care for was a few
sheep," he said quietly. "Nowadays, sometimes it's harder to come by." Turning away, he raised his voice.
"Logain, get everyone back through the gateway. Yes, yes, Merise. I'm not trying to command you. If
you'll deign to join us, though? It will be closing soon."
Marath'damane, the ones who called themselves Aes Sedai, began filing through that mad opening in the
air, as did the black-coated men, the Asha'man, all mingling with the hook-nosed soldiers. Several of
those finished tying Tanera to the saddle of the horse. The beasts had been provided by the Dragon
Reborn. How odd, that he should give them gifts after what had happened.
The hard-eyed young man turned back to her. "Repeat your instructions."
"I am to return to Ebou Dar with a message for our leaders there."
"The Daughter of the Nine Moons," the Dragon Reborn said sternly. "You will deliver my message to
her."
Falendre stumbled. She was not in any way worthy to speak to one of the Blood, let alone the High Lady,
daughter of the Empress, might she live forever! But this man's expression allowed no argument. Falendre
would find a way. "I will deliver your message to her," Falendre continued. "I will tell her that . . . that
you bear her no malice for this attack, and that you desire a meeting."
"I still desire one," the Dragon Reborn said.
As far as Falendre knew, the Daughter of the Nine Moons had never known about the original meeting. It
had been arranged in secret by Anath. And that was why Falendre knew for certain that this man must be
the Dragon Reborn. For only the Dragon Reborn himself could face one of the Forsaken and not only
survive, but come out the victor.
Was that really what she had been? One of the Forsaken? Falendre's mind reeled at the concept.
Impossible. And yet, here was the Dragon Reborn. If he lived, if he walked the land, then the Forsaken
would, too. She
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
29
was muddled, her thoughts going in circles, she knew. She bottled up her terror—she would deal with that
later. She needed to be in control.
She forced herself to meet those frozen gemstones this man had for eyes. She had to preserve some
dignity if only to reassure the four other surviving sul'dam. And the damane, of course. If the sul'dam lost
composure again, there would be no hope for the damam.
"I will tell her," Falendre said, managing to keep her voice even, "that you still desire a meeting with her.
That you believe there must be peace between our peoples. And I am to tell her that Lady Anath was . . .
was one of the Forsaken."
To the side, she saw some of the marattidamane push Anath through the hole in the air, maintaining a
stately bearing despite her captivity. She always had tried to dominate above her station. Could she really
be what this man said she was?
How was Falendre to face the der'sul'dam and explain this tragedy, this terrible mess? She itched to be
away from it, to find someplace to hide.
"We must have peace," the Dragon Reborn said. "I will see it happen. Tell your mistress that she can find
me in Arad Doman; I will quell the battle against your forces there. Let her know that I give this as a sign
of good faith, just as I release you out of good faith. It is no shame to be manipulated by one of the
Forsaken, particularly not . . . that creature. In a way, I rest more easily, now. I worried that one of them
would have infiltrated the Seanchan nobility. I should have guessed that it would be Semirhage. She
always preferred a challenge."
He spoke of the Forsaken with an incredible sense of familiarity, and it gave Falendre chills.
He glanced at her. "You may go," he said, then walked over and passed through the rip in the air. What
she would give to have that traveling trick for Nenci. The last of the maratk'damane passed through the
hole, and it closed, leaving Falendre and the others alone. They were a sorry group. Talha was still crying,
and Malian looked ready to sick up. Several of the others had had bloodied faces before they washed, and
faint red smears and flakes of crusted blood still marred their skin. Falendre was glad she had been able to
avoid accepting Healing for them. She had seen one of those men Healing members of the Dragon's party.
Who knew what taint it would leave on a person to be beneath those corrupt hands?
"Be strong," she commanded the others, feeling far more uncertain than she sounded. He had actually let
her free! She'd barely dared hope for
30
THE GATHERING STORM
that. Best to be away soon. Very soon. She chivvied the others onto the horses he had given, and within
minutes they were riding south, toward Ebou Dar, each sul'dam riding with her companion damane at her
side.
The events of this day could mean having her damane stripped from her, being forbidden to hold the
a'dam ever again. With Anath gone, punishment would be demanded of someone. What would High Lady
Suroth say? Damane dead, the Dragon Reborn insulted.
Surely losing access to the a'dam was the worst that could happen to her. They wouldn't make one such as
Falendre da'covale, would they? The thought made the bile twist inside of her again.
She would have to explain the events of this day very carefully. There had to be a way she could present
these matters in a way that would save her life.
She had given her word to the Dragon to speak directly to the Daughter of the Nine Moons. And she
would. But she might not do so immediately. Careful consideration would have to be given. Very careful
consideration.
She leaned in close to her horse's neck, nudging her mount forward, ahead of the others. That way, they
wouldn't see the tears of frustration, pain and terror in her eyes.
Tylee Khirgan, Lieutenant-General of the Ever Victorious Army, sat her horse atop a forested hilltop,
looking northward. Such a different place this land was. Her homeland, Maram Kashor, was a dry island
on the very southeastern tip of Seanchan. The lumma trees there were straight, towering monsters, with
fronds sprouting from the top like the hair crest of a member of the High Blood.
The things that passed for trees in this land were gnarled, twisting, branching shrubs by comparison. Their
limbs were like the fingers of old soldiers, gone arthritic from years holding the sword. What had the
locals called these plants? Brushwood trees? So odd. To think that some of her ancestors might have
come from this place, traveling with Luthair Paendrag to Seanchan.
Her army marched down the road below, throwing dust into the air. Thousands upon thousands of men.
Fewer than she'd had before, but not by many. It had been two weeks since her fight with the Aiel, where
Perrin Aybara's plan had worked impressively. Fighting alongside a man like him was always a
bittersweet experience. Sweet for the sheer genius of it.
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
31
Bitter for the worry that one day, they would face each other on the battlefield. Tylee was not one who
enjoyed a challenge in a fight. She'd always preferred to win straight out.
Some generals said that never struggling meant never being forced to improve. Tylee figured that she and
her men would do their improving on the practice field, and leave the struggling to her enemies.
She would not like to face Perrin. No, she would not. And not just because she was fond of him.
Slow hoofbeats sounded on the earth. She glanced to the side as Mishima rode his horse, a pale gelding,
up next to hers. He had his helm tied to his saddle, and his scarred face was thoughtful. They were a pair,
the two of them. Tylee's own face bore its share of old scars.
Mishima saluted her, more respectful now that Tylee had been raised to the Blood. That particular
message, delivered by raken, had been an unexpected one. It was an honor, and one she still wasn't
accustomed to.
"Still mulling over the battle?" Mishima asked.
"I am," Tylee said. Two weeks, and still it dominated her mind. "What do you think?"
"Of Aybara, you mean?" Mishima asked. He still spoke to her like a friend, even if he kept himself from
meeting her eyes. "He is a good soldier. Perhaps too focused, too driven. But solid."
"Yes," Tylee said, then shook her head. "The world is changing, Mishima. In ways we cannot anticipate.
First Aybara, and then the oddities."
Mishima nodded thoughtfully. "The men don't want to speak of them."
"The events have happened too often to be the work of delusion," Tylee said. "The scouts are seeing
something."
"Men don't just vanish," Mishima said. "You think it's the One Power?"
"I do not know what it is," she said. She glanced over the trees around her. Some trees she'd passed earlier
had begun to send out spring growth, but not a one of these had done so. They looked skeletal, though the
air was warm enough for it to be planting season already. "Do they have trees like this in Halamak?"
"Not exactly like them," Mishima said. "But I've seen their like before."
"Should they have budded by now?"
He shrugged. "I'm a soldier, General Tylee."
"I hadn't noticed," she said dryly.
32
THE GATHERING STORM
He grunted. "I mean that I don't pay attention to trees. Trees don't bleed. Perhaps they should have
budded, but perhaps not. Few things make sense on this side of the ocean. Trees that don't bud in spring,
that's just another oddity. Better that than more marath'damane acting like they were of the Blood,
everyone bowing and scraping to them." He shuddered visibly.
Tylee nodded, but she didn't share his revulsion. Not completely. She wasn't certain what to think of
Perrin Aybara and his Aes Sedai, let alone his Asha'man. And she didn't know much more about trees
than Mishima. But it felt to her that they should have started to bud. And those men the scouts kept seeing
in the fields, how could they vanish so quickly, even with the One Power?
The quartermaster had opened up one of their packs of travel rations today and found only dust. Tylee
would have started a search for a thief or a prankster if the quartermaster hadn't insisted that he'd checked
that pack just moments before. Karm was a solid man; he'd been her quartermaster for years. He did not
make mistakes.
Rotting food was so common here. Karm blamed the heat of this strange land. But travel rations couldn't
rot or spoil, at least not this un-predictably. The omens were all bad, these days. Earlier today, she'd seen
two dead rats lying on their backs, one with a tail in the mouth of the other. It was the worst omen she'd
ever seen in her life, and it still chilled her to think of it.
Something was happening. Perrin hadn't been willing to speak of it much, but she saw a weight upon him.
He knew much more than he had spoken.
We can't afford to be fighting these people, she thought. It was a rebellious thought, one she wouldn't speak to
Mishima. She didn't dare ponder it. The Empress, might she live forever, had ordered that this land be
reclaimed. Suroth and Galgan were the Empire's chosen leaders in the venture, until the Daughter of the
Nine Moons revealed herself. While Tylee couldn't know the High Lady Tuon's thoughts, Suroth and
Galgan were united in their desire to see this land subdued. It was practically the only thing they did agree
upon.
None of them would listen to suggestions that they should be looking for allies among the people of this
land, rather than enemies. Thinking about it was close to treason. Insubordination, at least. She sighed and
turned to Mishima, prepared to give the order to begin scouting for a place to camp for the night.
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
33
She froze. Mishima had an arrow through his neck, a wicked, barbed thing. She hadn't heard it strike. He
met her eyes, stunned, trying to speak and only letting out blood. He slid from the saddle and collapsed in
a heap as something enormous charged through the underbrush beside Tylee, cracking gnarled branches,
throwing itself at her. She barely had time to pull free her sword and shout before Duster—a good, solid
war-horse that had never failed her in battle—reared in panic, tossing her to the ground.
That probably saved her life, as her attacker swung a thick-bladed sword, cutting into the saddle where
Tylee had been. She scrambled to her feet, armor clanking, and screamed the alert. "To arms! Attack!"
Her voice joined hundreds who made the same call at virtually the same time. Men screamed. Horses
whinnied.
An ambush, she thought, raising her blade. And we walked right into it! Where are the scouts? What
happened? She launched herself at the man who had tried to kill her. He spun, snorting.
And for the first time, she saw just what he was. Not quite a man— instead, some creature with twisted
features, the head covered in coarse brown hair, the too-wide forehead wrinkled with thick skin. Those
eyes were disturbingly human-like, but the nose below was flattened like that of a boar and the mouth
jutted with two prominent tusks. The creature roared at her, spittle spraying from its nearly human lips.
Blood of my Fathers Forgotten, she thought. What have we stumbled into? The monster was a nightmare, given
a body and let loose to kill. It was a thing she had always dismissed as superstition.
She charged the creature, knocking aside its thick sword as it tried to attack. She spun, falling into Beat
the Brushes, and separated the beast's arm from its shoulder. She struck again, and its head followed the
arm to the ground, cut free. It stumbled, somehow still walking three steps, before collapsing.
The trees rustled, more branches snapping. Just down from her hillside, Tylee saw that hundreds of the
creatures had broken out of the underbrush, attacking the line of her men near the middle, causing chaos.
More and more of the monsters poured between the trees.
How had this happened? How had these things gotten so close to Ebou Dar! They were well inside the
Seanchan defensive perimeter, only a day's march from the capital.
Tylee charged down the hillside, bellowing for her honor guard as more of the beasts roared out of the
trees behind her.
34
THE GATHERING STORM
Graendal lounged in a stonework room lined with adoring men and women, each one a perfect specimen,
each one wearing little more than a robe of diaphanous white cloth. A warm fire played in the hearth,
illuminating a fine rug of blood red. That rug was woven in the design of young women and men
entangled in ways that would have made even an experienced courtesan blush. The open windows let in
afternoon light, the lofty position of her palace giving a view of pines and a shimmering lake below.
She sipped sweetbristle juice, wearing a pale blue dress after the Do-mani cut—she was growing fond of
their fashions, though her dress was far more filmy than the ones they wore. These Domani were too fond
of whispering when Graendal preferred a nice sharp scream. She took another sip of juice. What an
interestingly sour flavor it had. It was exotic during this Age, since the trees now grew only on distant
islands.
Without warning, a gateway spun open in the center of the room. She cursed under her breath as one of
her finest prizes—a succulent young woman named Thurasa, a member of the Domani merchant
council— nearly lost an arm to the thing. The gateway let in a sweltering heat that marred the perfect mix
of chill mountain air and fireplace warmth she had cultivated.
Graendal kept her composure, forcing herself to lounge back in her overstuffed velvet chair. A messenger
in black strode through the portal, and she knew what he wanted before he spoke. Only Moridin knew
where to find her, now that Sammael was dead.
"My Lady, your presence is required by—"
"Yes, yes," she said. "Stand straight and let me see you."
The youth stood still, just two steps into the room. And my, he was attractive! Pale golden hair as was so
rare in many parts of the world, green eyes that shimmered like moss-grown pools, a lithe figure taut with
just enough muscle. Graendal clicked her tongue. Was Moridin trying to tempt her by sending his very
most pretty, or was the choice coincidental?
No. Among the Chosen, there were no coincidences. Graendal nearly reached out with a weave of
Compulsion to seize the boy for herself. However, she restrained herself. Once a man had known that
level of Compulsion, there was no way to recover him, and Moridin might be angered. She did need to
worry about his whims. The man never had been stable, even
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
35
during the early years. If she intended to see herself as Nae'blis someday, it was important not to rile him
until it was time to strike.
She turned her attention away from the messenger—if she couldn't have him, then she wasn't interested in
him—and looked through the open gateway. She hated being forced to meet with one of the other Chosen
on their terms. She hated leaving her stronghold and her pets. Most of all, she hated being forced to grovel
before one who should have been her subordinate.
There was nothing to be done about it. Moridin was Nae'blis. For now. And that meant, hate it or not,
Graendal had no choice but to answer his summons. So she set aside her drink, then stood and walked
through the gateway, her diaphanous pale blue gown shimmering with golden embroidery.
It was distractingly hot on the other side of the gateway. She immediately wove Air and Water, cooling
the air around her. She was in a black stone building, with ruddy light coming in the windows. They had
no glass in them. That reddish tint implied a sunset, but it was barely midafternoon back in Arad Doman.
Surely she hadn't traveled that far, had she?
The room was furnished only with hard chairs of the deepest black wood. Moridin certainly was lacking
in imagination lately. Everything of black and red, and all focused on killing those fool boys from the
village of Rand al'Thor. Was she the only one who saw that al'Thor himself was the real threat? Why not
just kill him and be done with it?
The most obvious answer to that question—that none of them so far had proven strong enough to defeat
him—was one she did not enjoy contemplating.
She walked to the window and found the reason for the rust-colored light. Outside, the claylike ground
was stained red from the iron in the soil. She was on the second level of a deep black tower, the stones
drawing in the burning heat of the sky. Very little vegetation sprouted outside, and that which did was
spotted with black. So, it was the deep northeastern Blight. It had been some time since she'd been here.
Moridin seemed to have located a fortress, of all things.
A collection of shoddy huts stood in the shadow of the fortress, and a few patches of blightstrain crops
marked fields in the distance. They were probably trying a new strain, coaxing it to grow in the area.
Perhaps several different crops; that would explain the patches. Guards prowled the area, wearing black
uniforms despite the heat. Soldiers were necessary to
36
THE GATHERING STORM
fight off attacks from the various Shadowspawn that inhabited the lands this deep within the Blight.
Those creatures obeyed no master save for the Great Lord himself. What was Moridin doing all the way
out here?
Her speculation was cut short as footsteps announced other arrivals. Demandred entered through the
doorway to the south, and he was accompanied by Mesaana. Had they arrived together, then? They
assumed that Graendal did not know of their little alliance, a pact that included Semi-rhage. But honestly,
if they wanted to keep that a secret, couldn't they see that they shouldn't answer a summons together?
Graendal hid a smile as she nodded to the two of them, then selected the largest and most
comfortable-looking of the room's chairs to sit in. She ran a finger along the smooth, dark wood, feeling
the grain beneath the lacquer. Demandred and Mesaana regarded her coldly, and she knew them well
enough to pick out hints of their surprise at seeing her. So. They had anticipated this meeting, had they?
But not Graendal's presence at it? Best to pretend that she herself was not confused. She smiled
knowingly at the two of them and caught a flash of anger in Demandred's eyes.
That man frustrated her, though she would never admit it out loud. Mesaana was in the White Tower,
pretending to be one of what passed for an Aes Sedai in this Age. She was obvious and easy to read;
Graendal's agents in the White Tower kept her well apprised of Mesaana's activities. And, of course,
Graendal's own newly minted association with Aran'gar was helpful as well. Aran'gar was playing with
the rebel Aes Sedai, the ones who were besieging the White Tower.
Yes, Mesaana did not confuse her, and the others were equally easy to track. Moridin was gathering the
Great Lord's forces for the Last Battle, and his war preparations left him very little time for the
south—though his two minions, Cyndane and Moghedien, occasionally showed their faces there. They
spent their time rallying the Darkfriends and occasionally trying to follow Moridin's orders that the two
ta'veren—Perrin Aybara and Matrim Cauthon—be killed.
She was certain Sammael had fallen to Rand al'Thor during the struggle for Illian. In fact—now that
Graendal had a clue that Semirhage had been pulling strings with the Seanchan—she was confident she
knew the plans of every one of the other seven remaining Chosen.
Except Demandred.
What was that blasted man up to? She'd have traded all of her knowledge of Mesaana's and Aran'gar's
doings for even a hint of Demandred's plans. He stood there, handsome and hawk-nosed, his lips drawn in
perWHAT THE STORM MEANS
37
petual anger. Demandred never smiled, never seemed to enjoy anything. Though he was one of the
foremost generals among the Chosen, warfare had never seemed to bring him joy. Once she had heard
him say that he would laugh the day he could snap the neck of Lews Therin. And only then.
He was a fool to bear that grudge. To think he might have been on the other side—might have become the
Dragon himself, had things turned out differently. Still, fool or not, he was extremely dangerous, and
Graen-dal did not like being ignorant of his plans. Where had he set up? Demandred liked having armies
to command, but there were none left moving in the world.
Save perhaps for those Borderlanders. Could he have managed to infiltrate them} That certainly would
have been a coup. But surely she'd have heard something; she had spies in that camp.
She shook her head, wishing for a drink to wet her lips. This northern air was too dry; she much preferred
the Domani humidity. Demandred folded his arms, remaining standing as Mesaana seated herself. She
had chin-length dark hair and watery blue eyes. Her floor-length white dress bore no embroidery, and she
wore no jewelry. A scholar to the core. Sometimes Graendal thought Mesaana had gone over to the
Shadow because it offered a more interesting opportunity for research.
Mesaana was fully dedicated to the Great Lord now, just like the rest of them, but she seemed a
second-rate member of the Chosen. Making boasts she couldn't fulfill, allying herself to stronger parties
but lacking the skill to manipulate them. She'd done evil works in the Great Lord's name, but had never
managed the grand achievements of Chosen like Semirhage and Demandred. Let alone Moridin.
And, as Graendal began to think on Moridin, the man entered. Now, there was a handsome creature.
Demandred looked like a knob-faced peasant compared with him. Yes, this body was much better than his
previous one. He was almost pretty enough to be one of her pets, though that chin spoiled the face. Too
prominent, too strong. Still, that stark black hair atop a tall, broad-shouldered body. . . . She smiled,
thinking of him kneeling in a filmy outfit of white, looking at her adoringly, his mind wrapped in
Compulsion to the point that he saw nobody—nothing— other than Graendal.
Mesaana rose as soon as Moridin entered, and Graendal reluctantly did likewise. He wasn't her pet, not
yet. He was Nae'blis, and he had begun to demand more and more shows of obedience from them in
recent
38
THE GATHERING STORM
days. The Great Lord gave him the authority. All three of the other Chosen reluctantly bowed their heads
to him; only to him among all men would they show deference. He noted their obedience with stern eyes
as he stalked to the front of the room, where the wall of charcoal black stones was set with a mantel. What
had possessed someone to build a fortress out of black rock in the Blight's heat?
Graendal sat back down. Were the other Chosen coming? If not, what did it mean?
Mesaana spoke before Moridin could say anything. "Moridin," she said, stepping forward, "we need to
rescue her."
"You will speak when I give you leave, Mesaana," he replied coldly. "You are not yet forgiven."
She cringed, then obviously grew angry at herself for it. Moridin ignored her, glancing over at Graendal,
eyes narrow. What was that look for?
"You may continue," he finally said to Mesaana, "but remember your place."
Mesaana's lips formed a line, but she did not argue. "Moridin," she said, tone less demanding. "You saw
the wisdom in agreeing to meet with us. Surely that was because you are as shocked as we are. We do not
have the resources to help her ourselves; she is bound to be well guarded by Aes Sedai and those
Asha'man. You need to help us free her."
"Semirhage deserves her imprisonment," Moridin said, resting his arm on the mantel, still turned away
from Mesaana.
Semirhage, captured? Graendal had just barely learned that the woman was impersonating an important
Seanchan! What had she done to get herself captured? If there were Asha'man, then it seemed she'd
managed to be taken by al'Thor himself!
Despite her startlement, Graendal maintained her knowing smile. Demandred glanced at her. If he and
Mesaana had asked for this meeting, then why had Moridin sent for Graendal?
"But think of what Semirhage might reveal!" Mesaana said, ignoring Graendal. "Beyond that, she is one
of the Chosen. It is our duty to aid her."
And beyond that, Graendal thought, she is a member of the little alliance you two made. Perhaps the strongest
member. Losing her will be a blow to your bid for control of the Chosen.
"She disobeyed," Moridin said. "She was not to try to kill al'Thor."
"She didn't intend to," Mesaana said hastily. "Our woman there thinks that the bolt of Fire was a reaction
of surprise, not an intention to kill."
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
39
"And what say you of this, Demandred?" Moridin said, glancing at the shorter man.
"I want Lews Therin," Demandred said, his voice deep, his expression dark, as always. "Semirhage
knows that. She also knows that if she'd killed him, I would have found her and claimed her life in
retribution. Nobody kills al'Thor. Nobody but me."
"You or the Great Lord, Demandred," Moridin said, voice dangerous. "His will dominates us all."
"Yes, yes, of course it does," Mesaana cut in, stepping forward, plain dress brushing the mirror-bright
black marble floor. "Moridin, the fact remains that she didn't intend to kill him, just to capture him. I—"
"Of course she intended to capture him!" Moridin roared, causing Mesaana to flinch. "That was what she
was ordered to do. And she failed at it, Mesaana. Failed spectacularly, leaving him wounded despite my
express command that he wasn't to be harmed! And for that incompetence, she will suffer. I will give you
no aid in rescuing her. In fact, I forbid yon to send her aid. Do you understand?"
Mesaana flinched again. Demandred did not; he met Moridin's eyes, then nodded. Yes, he was a cold one.
Perhaps Graendal underestimated him. He very well might be the most powerful of the three, more
dangerous than Semirhage. She was emotionless and controlled, true, but sometimes emotion was
appropriate. It could drive a man like Demandred to actions that a more coolheaded person couldn't even
contemplate.
Moridin looked down, flexing his left hand, as if it were stiff. Graendal caught a hint of pain in his
expression.
"Let Semirhage rot," Moridin growled. "Let her see what it is to be the one questioned. Perhaps the Great
Lord will find some use for her in the coming weeks, but that is his to determine. Now. Tell me of your
preparations."
Mesaana paled just slightly, glancing at Graendal. Demandred's face grew red, as if he was incredulous
that they would be interrogated in front of another Chosen. Graendal smiled at them.
"I am perfectly poised," Mesaana said, turning back to Moridin with a sweep of her head. "The White
Tower and those fools who rule it will shortly be mine. I will deliver not just a broken White Tower to
our Great Lord, but an entire brood of channelers who-—one way or another—will serve our cause in the
Last Battle. This time, the Aes Sedai will fight for us!"
"A bold claim," Moridin said.
40
THE GATHERING STORM
"I will make it happen," Mesaana said evenly. "My followers infest the Tower like an unseen plague,
festering inside of a healthy-looking man at market. More and more join our cause. Some intentionally,
others unwittingly. It is the same either way."
Graendal listened thoughtfully. Aran'gar claimed that the rebel Aes Sedai would eventually secure the
Tower, though Graendal herself wasn't certain. Who would be victorious, the child or the fool? Did it
matter?
"And you?" Moridin asked Demandred.
"My rule is secure," Demandred said simply. "I gather for war. We will be ready."
Graendal itched for him to say more than that, but Moridin did not push. Still, it was much more than
she'd been able to glean on her own. Demandred apparently held a throne and had armies. Which were
gathered. The Borderlanders marching through the east seemed more and more likely.
"You two may withdraw," Moridin said.
Mesaana sputtered at the dismissal, but Demandred simply turned and stalked away. Graendal nodded to
herself; she'd have to watch him. The Great Lord favored action, and often those who could bring armies
to his name were best rewarded. Demandred could very well be her most important rival—following
Moridin himself, of course.
He had not dismissed her, and so she remained seated as the other two withdrew. Moridin stayed where
he was, one arm leaning against the mantel. There was silence in the too-black room for a time, and then a
servant in a crisp red uniform entered, bearing two cups. He was an ugly thing, with a flat face and bushy
eyebrows, worth no more than a passing glance.
She took a sip of her drink and tasted new wine, just slightly tart, but quite good. It was growing hard to
find good wine; the Great Lord's touch on the world tainted everything, spoiling food, ruining even that
which never should have been able to spoil.
Moridin waved the servant away, not taking his own cup. Graendal feared poison, of course. She always
did when drinking from another's cup. However, there would be no reason for Moridin to poison her; he
was Nae'blis. While most of them resisted showing subservience to him, more and more he was exerting
his will on them, pushing them into positions as his lessers. She suspected that, if he wished, he could
have her executed in any manner of ways and the Great Lord would grant it to him. So she drank and
waited.
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
41
"Did you glean much from what you heard, Graendal?" Moridin asked.
"As much as could be gleaned," she answered carefully.
"I know how you crave information. Moghedien has always been known as the spider, pulling strings
from afar, but you are in many ways better at it than she. She winds so many webs that she gets caught in
them. You are more careful. You strike only when wise, but are not afraid of conflict. The Great Lord
approves of your initiative."
"My dear Moridin," she said, smiling to herself, "you flatter me."
"Do not toy with me, Graendal," he said, voice hard. "Take your compliments and be silent."
She recoiled as if slapped, but said no more.
"I gave you leave to listen to the other two as a reward," Moridin said. "Nae'blis has been chosen, but
there will be other positions of high glory in the Great Lord's reign. Some much higher than others. Today
was a taste of the privileges you might enjoy."
"I live only to serve the Great Lord."
"Then serve him in this," Moridin said, looking directly at her. "Al'Thor moves for Arad Doman. He is to
live unharmed until he can face me at that last day. But he must not be allowed to make peace in your
lands. He will attempt to restore order. You must find ways to prevent that from happening."
"It will be done."
"Go, then," Moridin said, waving a hand sharply.
She rose, thoughtful, and started toward the door.
"And Graendal," he said.
She hesitated, glancing at him. He stood against the mantel, back mostly to her. He seemed to be staring
at nothing, just looking at the black stones of the far wall. Strangely, he looked a great deal like
al'Thor—of whom she had numerous sketches via her spies—when he stood like that.
"The end is near," Moridin said. "The Wheel has groaned its final rotation, the clock has lost its spring,
the serpent heaves its final gasps. He must know pain of heart. He must know frustration, and he must
know anguish. Bring these to him. And you will be rewarded."
She nodded, then made her way through the provided gateway, back to her stronghold in the hills of Arad
Doman.
To plot.
42
THE GATHERING STORM
Rodel Ituralde's mother, now thirty years buried in the clay hills of his Domani homeland, had been fond
of a particular saying: "Things always have to get worse before they can get better." She'd said it when
she'd yanked free his festering tooth as a boy, an ailment he'd earned while playing at swords with the
village boys. She'd said it when he'd lost his first love to a lordling who wore a hat with feathers and
whose soft hands and jeweled sword had proven he'd never known a real battle. And she'd say it now, if
she were with him on the ridge, watching the Seanchan march upon the city nestled in the shallow valley
below.
He studied the city, Darluna, through his looking glass, shading the end with his left hand, his gelding
quiet beneath him in the evening light. He and several of his Domani kept to this small stand of trees; it
would take the Dark One's own luck for the Seanchan to spot him, even with looking glasses of their own.
Things always had to get worse before they could get better. He'd lit a fire under the Seanchan by
destroying their supply depots all across Almoth Plain and into Tarabon. He shouldn't be surprised, then,
to see a grand army like this one—a hundred and fifty thousand strong at least—come to quench that fire.
It showed a measure of respect. They did not underestimate him, these Seanchan invaders. He wished that
they did.
Ituralde moved his looking glass, studying a group of riders among the Seanchan force. They rode in
pairs, one woman of each pair wearing gray, the other red and blue. They were far too distant, even with
the glass, for him to make out the embroidered lightning bolts on the dresses of those in red and blue, nor
could he see the chains that linked each pair together. Damane and ml'dam.
This army had at least a hundred pairs, probably more. If that weren't enough, he could see one of the
flying beasts above, drawing close for its rider to drop a message to the general. With those creatures to
carry their scouts, the Seanchan army had an unprecedented edge. Ituralde would have traded ten
thousand soldiers for one of those flying beasts. Other commanders might have wanted the damane, with
their ability to throw lightnings and cause the earth to heave, but battles—like wars—were won by
information as often as they were by weapons.
Of course, the Seanchan had superior weapons as well as superior scouts. They also had superior troops.
Though Ituralde was proud of his Domani, many of his men were ill trained or too old for fighting. He
almost lumped himself in that latter group, as the years were beginning to
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
43
pile on him like bricks on a pallet. But he gave no thought to retiring. When he'd been a boy, he'd often
felt a sense of urgency—a worry that by the time he came of age, the great battles would all be done, all
the glory won.
Sometimes, he envied boys their foolishness.
"They march hard, Rodel," Lidrin said. He was a youth with a scar across the left side of his face, and he
wore a fashionable thin black mustache. "They badly want to capture that city." Lidrin had been untested
as an officer before this campaign began. He was a veteran now. Although Ituralde and his forces had
won nearly every engagement they'd had with the Seanchan, Lidrin had seen three of his companion
officers fall, poor Jaalam Nishur among them. From their deaths, Lidrin had learned one of the bitter
lessons of warfare: winning didn't necessarily mean living. And following orders often didn't mean either
winning or living.
Lidrin didn't wear his customary uniform. Neither did Ituralde or any of the men with him. Their uniforms
had been needed elsewhere, and that left them with simple worn coats and brown trousers, many
borrowed or bought from locals.
Ituralde raised his looking glass again, thinking on Lidrin's comment. The Seanchan did indeed march
with speed; they were planning to take Darluna quickly. They saw the advantage it would offer, for they
were a clever foe, and they had returned to Ituralde an excitement he had assumed that he'd left behind
years ago.
"Yes, they push hard," he said. "But what would you do, Lidrin? An enemy force of two hundred
thousand behind you, another of a hundred and fifty thousand ahead of you. With enemies on all sides,
would you march your men maybe just a little too hard if you knew that you'd find refuge at the end?"
Lidrin did not respond. Ituralde turned his looking glass, examining spring fields clustered with workers
going about their planting. Darluna was a large city for these parts. Nothing here in the west could match
the grand cities of the east and south, of course, regardless of what people from Tanchico or Falme would
like to claim. Still, Darluna had a sturdy granite wall a good twenty feet tall. There was no beauty to the
fortification, but the wall was solid, and it wrapped a city big enough to make any country boy gawk. In
his youth, Ituralde would have called it grand. That was before he'd gone to fight the Aiel at Tar Valon.
Either way, it was the best fortification to be found in the area, and
44
THE GATHERING STORM
the Seanchan commanders no doubt knew it. They could have chosen to hunker down on a hilltop;
fighting surrounded would make full use of those damane. However, that would not only leave no retreat,
but would leave them minimal opportunities for supply. A city would have wells and perhaps leftover
winter stores inside the wall. And Darluna, which had had its garrisons pressed into service elsewhere,
was far too small to offer serious resistance. . . .
Ituralde lowered his looking glass. He didn't need it to know what was happening as the Seanchan scouts
reached the city, demanding that the gates be opened to the invading force. He closed his eyes, waiting.
Lidrin exhaled softly beside him. "They didn't notice," he whispered. "They're moving the bulk of their
forces up to the walls, waiting to be let in!"
"Give the order," Ituralde said, opening his eyes. There was one problem with superior scouts like the
raken. When you had access to a tool so useful, you tended to rely upon it. And reliance like that could be
exploited.
In the distance, the "farmers" on the fields tossed aside their tools and pulled bows from hidden clefts in
the ground. The gates to the city opened, revealing the soldiers hiding inside—soldiers that the Seanchan
raken scouts had claimed were a four-day ride away.
Ituralde raised his looking glass. The battle began.
The Prophet's fingers bit dirt, tearing trenches in the soil as he scrambled up to the top of the forested
hillside. His followers straggled behind. So few. So few! But he would rebuild. The glory of the Dragon
Reborn followed him, and no matter where he went, he found willing souls. Those with hearts that were
pure, those who had hands that burned to destroy the Shadow.
Yes! Think not of the past, think of the future, when the Lord Dragon would rule all of the land! When
men would be subject only to him, and to his Prophet beneath him. Those days would be glorious indeed,
days when none would dare scorn the Prophet or deny his will. Days when the Prophet wouldn't have to
suffer the indignity of living near the very camp—the very one—as Shadowspawn like that creature
Aybara. Glorious days. Glorious days were coming.
It was difficult to keep his thoughts on those future glories. The world around him was filthy. Men denied
the Dragon and sought the Shadow.
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
45
Even his own followers. Yes! That must have been why they had fallen. That must have been why so
many died when assaulting the city of Maiden and its Darkfriend Aiel.
The Prophet had been so certain. He had assumed that the Dragon would protect his people, lead them to
a powerful victory. Then the Prophet would finally have gotten his wish. He could have killed Perrin
Aybara with his own hands! Twist that too-thick bull's neck in his fingers, twist it around, squeezing,
feeling the bones crack, the flesh wring, the breath stop.
The Prophet reached the top of the ridge and brushed the dirt from his fingers. He breathed in and out,
scanning around him, underbrush rustling as his few remaining followers climbed up toward him. The
canopy was dense overhead, and very little sunlight peeked through. Light. Radiant light.
The Dragon had appeared to him the night before the attack. Appeared in glory! A figure of light, glowing
in the air in shimmering robes. Kill Perrin Aybara! the Dragon had commanded. Kill him! And so the
Prophet had sent his very best tool, Aybara's own dear friend.
That boy, that tool, had failed. Aram was dead. The Prophet's men had confirmed it. Tragedy! Was that
why they had not prospered? Was that why, out of his thousands of followers, he now only had a bare
handful? No. No! They must have turned against him, secretly worshipping the Shadow. Aram!
Darkfriend! That was why he had failed.
The first of his followers—battered, dirtied, bloodied, exhausted— reached the top of the ridge. They
wore threadbare clothing. Clothing that did not set them above others. The clothing of simplicity and
goodness.
The Prophet counted them off. Fewer than a hundred. So few. This cursed forest was so dark, despite the
daylight. Thick trunks stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and the sky overhead had grown dim with cloud cover.
The underbrush of thin-branched boneweed shrubs matted together, forming an almost unnatural barrier,
and those shrubs scratched like claws on his skin.
With that underbrush and the sharp earthen bank, the army could not follow this way. Though the Prophet
had escaped from Aybara's camp barely an hour before, he already felt safe. They would go north, where
Aybara and his Darkfriends would not find them. There, the Prophet could rebuild. He had stayed with
Aybara only because his followers had been strong enough to keep Aybara's Darkfriends away.
46
THE GATHERING STOMM
His dear followers. Brave men, and true, every one. Killed by Dark-friends. He mourned them, bowing
his head and muttering a prayer. His followers joined him. They were weary, but the light of zeal shone in
their eyes. Any who were weak, or who lacked dedication, had fled or been killed long ago. These were
the best, the mightiest, the most faithful. Each one had killed many Darkfriends in the name of the Dragon
Reborn.
With them, he could rebuild. But first he had to escape Aybara. The Prophet was too weak, now, to face
him. But later he would kill him. Yes . . . Fingers on that neck . . . Yes . . .
The Prophet could remember a time when he'd been called something else. Masema. Those days were
growing very blurry to him, like memories from a former life. Indeed, just as all men were reborn into the
Pattern, so had Masema been reborn—-he had cast off his old, profane life and had become the Prophet.
The last of his followers joined him atop the cliff face. He spat at their feet. They had failed him.
Cowards. They should have fought better! He should have been able to win that city.
He turned north and pushed his way forward. This landscape was growing familiar to him, though they
had nothing like it up in the Borderlands. They would climb to the highlands, then cross over and enter
Almoth Plain. There were Dragonsworn there, followers of the Prophet, even if many didn't know of him.
There he could rebuild quickly.
He pushed through a patch of the dark brush and entered a small clearing. His men followed quickly.
They would need food, soon, and he would have to send them hunting. No fires. They couldn't afford to
alert—
"Hello, Masema," a quiet voice said.
He hissed, spinning, his followers bunching around him and pulling out weapons. Swords for some,
knives, quarterstaffs, and the occasional polearm. The Prophet scanned the dim afternoon clearing,
searching for the one who had spoken. He found her standing on a little outcrop of rock a short distance
away, a woman with a prominent Saldaean nose, slightly tilted eyes, and shoulder-length black hair. She
wore green, with skirts divided for riding, her arms folded in front of her.
Faile Aybara, wife of the Shadowspawn, Perrin Aybara. "Take her!" the Prophet screamed, pointing.
Several of his followers scrambled forward, but most hesitated. They had seen what he had not. Shadows
in
WHAT THE STORM MEANS
47
the forest behind Aybara's wife, a half-circle of them. They were the shapes of men, with bows pointed
into the clearing.
Faile waved with a sharp motion, and the arrows flew. Those of his followers who had run at his bidding
fell first, crying out in the silent forest before falling to the loamy earth. The Prophet bellowed, each
arrow seeming to pierce his own heart. His beloved followers! His friends! His dear brothers!
An arrow slammed into him, throwing him backward to the ground. Around him, men died, just as they
had earlier. Why, why hadn't the Dragon protected them? Why? Suddenly, the horror of it all returned to
him, the sinking terror of watching his men fall in waves, at watching them die at the hands of those
Darkfriend Aiel.
It was Perrin Aybara's fault. If only the Prophet had seen earlier, back in the early days, before he'd even
recognized the Lord Dragon for who he was!
"It's my fault," the Prophet whispered as the last of his followers died. It had taken several arrows to stop
some of them. That made him proud.
Slowly, he forced himself back to his feet, hand to his shoulder, where the shaft sprouted. He'd lost too
much blood. Dizzy, he fell to his knees.
Faile stepped down off her stone and entered the clearing. Two women wearing trousers followed. They
looked concerned, but Faile ignored their protests that she stay back. She walked right up to the Prophet,
then slid her knife from her belt. It was a fine blade, with a cast hilt that showed a wolf's head. That was
well. Looking at it, the Prophet remembered the day when he'd earned his own blade. The day his father
had given it to him.
"Thank you for helping to assault Maiden, Masema," Faile said, stopping right in front of him. Then she
reached up and rammed that knife into his heart. He fell backward, his own blood hot on his chest.
"Sometimes, a wife must do what her husband cannot," he heard Faile tell her women as his eyes
fluttered, trying to close. "It is a dark thing we did this day, but necessary. Let no one speak of it to my
husband. He must never know."
Her voice grew distant. The Prophet fell.
Masema. That had been his name. He'd earned his sword on his fifteenth birthday. His father had been so
proud.
48
THE GATHERING STORM
It's over, then, he thought, unable to keep his eyes open. He closed them, falling as if through an endless
void. Did I do well, Father, or did I fail?
There was no answer. And he joined with the void, tumbling into an endless sea of blackness.
CHAPTER
1
Tears from Steel
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades
to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called
the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose around the alabaster spire
known as the White Tower. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to
the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning. The wind twisted around the magnificent
Tower, brushing perfectly fitted stones and flapping majestic banners. The structure was somehow both
graceful and powerful at the same time; a metaphor, perhaps, for those who had inhabited it for over three
thousand years. Few looking upon the Tower would guess that at its heart, it had been both broken and
corrupted. Separately.
The wind blew, passing through a city that seemed more a work of art than a workaday capital. Each
building was a marvel; even the simple granite shopfronts had been crafted by meticulous Ogier hands to
evoke wonder and beauty. Here a dome hinted at the form of a rising sun. There a fountain sprang from
the top of a building itself, cresting what appeared to be two waves crashing together. On one cobbled
street, a pair of steep three-story buildings stood opposite one another, each crafted into the form of a
maiden. The marble creations—half-statue, half-dwelling—
49
50
THE GATHERING STORM
reached with stone hands toward one another as if in greeting, hair billowing behind, immobile, yet
carved with such delicacy that every strand seemed to undulate in the wind's passing.
The streets themselves were far less grand. Oh, they had been laid out with care, radiating from the White
Tower like streaks of sunlight. Yet that sunlight was dimmed by refuse and clutter, hints at the crowding
the siege had caused. And perhaps the crowding wasn't the only reason for the disrepair. The storefront
signs and awnings hadn't seen wash or polish in far too long. Rotting garbage piled where it had been
dumped in alleys, drawing flies and rats but driving away all others. Dangerous toughs lounged on the
street corners. Once, they'd never have dared do that, and certainly not with such arrogance.
Where was the White Tower, the law? Young fools laughed, saying that the city's troubles were the fault
of the siege, and that things would settle down once the rebels were quelled. Older men shook their
gray-streaked heads and muttered that things had never been this bad, even when the savage Aiel had
besieged Tar Valon some twenty years previously.
Merchants ignored both young and old. They had their own problems, mainly on Southharbor, where
trade into the city by way of the river had nearly come to a halt. Thick-chested workers toiled beneath the
eyes of an Aes Sedai wearing a red-fringed shawl; she used the One Power to remove wards and weaken
the stone, while the workmen broke the rock apart and hauled it away.
The workmen had sleeves rolled up, exposing curls of dark hair along burly arms, as they swung pick or
hammer, pounding at the ancient stones. They dripped sweat onto rock or into the water below as they
dug at the roots of the chain that blocked passage into the city by river. Half of that chain was now
indestructible cuendillar, called heartstone by some. The effort to tear it free and allow passage into the
city was an exhausting one; the harbor stoneworks—magnificent and strong, shaped by the Power
itself—were only one of the more visible casualties of the silent war between the rebel Aes Sedai and
those who held the Tower.
The wind blew through the harbor, where idling porters stood watching the workers chip the stones away,
one by one, sending flakes of gray-white dust to float on the water. Those with too much sense—or
perhaps too little—whispered that such portents could mean only one thing. Tar-mon Gai'don, the Last
Battle, must quickly be approaching.
The wind danced away from the docks, passing over the tall white bulwarks known as the Shining Walls.
Here, at least, one could find cleanTEARS PROM STEEL
51
liness and attention in the Tower Guard who stood watch, holding bows. Clean-shaven, wearing white
tabards free from stain or wear, the archers watched over their barricades with the dangerous readiness of
snakes prepared to strike. These soldiers had no intention of letting Tar Valon fall while they were on
duty. Tar Valon had repelled every enemy. Trollocs had breached the walls, but been defeated in the city.
Artur Hawkwing had failed to take Tar Valon. Even the black-veiled Aiel, who had ravaged the land
during the Aiel War, had never taken the city. Many claimed this as a great victory. Others wondered
what would have happened if the Aiel had actually wanted to cross into the city.
The wind passed over the western fork of the River Erinin, leaving the island of Tar Valon behind,
passing the Alindaer Bridge soaring high to the right, as if taunting enemies to cross it and die. Past the
bridge, the wind swept into Alindaer, one of the many villages near Tar Valon. It was a village mostly
depopulated, as families had fled across the bridge for refuge in the city. The enemy army had appeared
suddenly, without warning, as if brought by a blizzard. Few wondered at it. This rebel army was headed
by Aes Sedai, and those who lived in the White Tower's shadow rarely gambled on just what Aes Sedai
could and couldn't do.
The rebel army was poised, but uncertain. Over fifty thousand strong, it camped in a massive ring of tents
around the smaller camp of Aes Sedai. There was a tight perimeter between the inner camp and the outer
one, a perimeter that had been most recently been intended to exclude men, particularly those who could
wield saidin.
Almost, one could think that this camp of rebels intended to set up permanently. It had an air of common
daily life about its workings. Figures in white bustled about, some wearing formal novice dresses, many
others clothed in near approximations. Looking closely, one could see that many of these were far from
young. Some had already reached their graying. But they were referred to as "children," and obedient they
were as they washed clothing, beat rugs, and scrubbed tents beneath the eyes of serene-faced Aes Sedai.
And if those Aes Sedai glanced with uncommon frequency at the nail-like profile of the White Tower,
one would be mistaken in assuming them uncomfortable or nervous. Aes Sedai were in control. Always.
Even now, when they had suffered an indelible defeat: Egwene al'Vere, the rebel Amyrlin Seat, had been
captured and imprisoned within the Tower.
The wind flicked a few dresses, knocked some laundry from its hangings, then continued westward in a
rush. Westward, past towering Dragon-mount, with its shattered and smoking apex. Over the Black Hills
and
52
THE GATHERING STORM
across the sweeping Caralain Grass. Here, pockets of sheltered snow clung to shadows beneath craggy
overhangs or beside the occasional stands of mountain blackwood. It was time for spring to arrive, time
for new shoots to peek through the winter's thatch and for buds to sprout on the thin-branched willows.
Few of either had actually come. The land was still dormant, as if waiting, holding its breath. The
unnatural heat of the previous autumn had stretched well into winter, pressing upon the land a drought
that had baked the life from all but the most vigorous plants. When winter had finally arrived, it had come
in a tempest of ice and snow, a lingering, killing frost. Now that the cold had finally retreated, the
scattered farmers looked in vain for hope.
The wind swept across brown winter grass, shaking the trees' still-barren branches. To the west, as it
approached the land known as Arad Doman—cresting hills and short peaks—something suddenly
slammed against it. Something unseen, something spawned by the distant darkness to the north.
Something that flowed against the natural tide and currents of the air. The wind was consumed by it,
blown southward in a gust, across low peaks and brown foothills to a log manor house, isolated, set upon
the pine-forested hills in eastern Arad Doman. The wind blew across the manor house and the tents set up
in the wide, open field before it, rattling pine needles and shaking tents.
Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn, stood, hands behind his back as he looked out the open manor window.
He still thought of them that way, his "hands," though he now had only one. His left arm ended in a
stump. He could feel the smooth, saidar-healed skin with the fingers of his good hand. Yet he felt as if his
other hand should be there to touch.
Steel, he thought. / am steel. This cannot be fixed, and so I move on.
The building—a thick-logged structure of pine and cedar after a design favored by the Domani
wealthy—groaned and settled in the wind. Something on that wind smelled of rotten meat. Not an
uncommon scent, these days. Meat spoiled without warning, sometimes only a few minutes after
butchering. Drying it or salting it didn't help. It was the Dark One's touch, and it grew with each passing
day. How long until it was as overwhelming, as oily and nauseating, as the taint that had once coated
saidin, the male half of the One Power?
The room he stood in was wide and long, thick logs making up the outer wall. Planks of pine—still
smelling faintly of sap and stain—made up the other walls. The room was furnished sparsely: fur rug on
the floor, a pair of aged crossed swords above the hearth, furniture of wood with the
TEARS FROM STEEL
53
bark left on in patches. The entire place had been decorated in a way to say that this was an idyllic home
in the woods, away from the bustle of larger cities. Not a cabin, of course—it was far too large and lavish
for that. A retreat.
"Rand?" a soft voice asked. He didn't turn, but felt Min's fingers touch his arm. A moment later, her hands
moved to his waist and he felt her head rest upon his arm. He could feel her concern for him through the
bond they shared.
Steel, he thought.
"I know you don't like—" Min began.
"The boughs," he said, nodding out the window. "You see those pines, just to the side of Bashere's
camp?"
"Yes, Rand. But—"
"They blow the wrong direction," Rand said.
Min hesitated, and though she gave no physical reaction, the bond brought him her spike of alarm. Their
window was on the upper floor of the manor, and outside of it, banners set above the camp flapped
against themselves: the Banner of Light and the Dragon Banner for Rand, a much smaller blue flag
bearing the three red kingspenny blossoms to mark the presence of House Bashere. All three flew proud .
. . yet just to the side of them, the needles on the pines blew in the opposite direction.
"The Dark One stirs, Min," Rand said. He could almost think these winds a result of his own ta'veren
nature, but the events he caused were always possible. The wind blowing in two directions at once . . .
well, he could feel the wrongness in the way those pines moved, even if he did have trouble
distinguishing the individual needles. His eyesight hadn't been the same since the attack on that day he'd
lost his hand. It was as if... as if he looked through water at something distorted. It was getting better,
slowly.
This building was one in a long line of manors, estates and other remote hiding places Rand had used
during the last few weeks. He'd wanted to keep moving, jumping from location to location, following the
failed meeting with Semirhage. He'd wanted time to think, to consider, and hopefully time to confuse the
enemies that might be searching for him. Lord Algarin's manor in Tear had been compromised; a pity.
That had been a good place to stay. But Rand had to keep moving.
Below, Bashere's Saldaeans had set up a camp on the manor's green— the open patch of grass out front,
bounded by rows of fir and pine trees. Calling it the "green" seemed an irony, these days. Even before the
army's
54
THE GATHERING STORM
arrival, it hadn't been green—it had been a patchy brown, winter thatch broken only occasionally by
hesitant new shoots. Those had been sickly and yellow, and they had now been trampled by hooves or
booted feet.
Tents covered the green. From Rand's vantage on the second floor, the neat lines of small, peaked tents
reminded him of squares on a stones board. The soldiers had noticed the wind. Some pointed, others kept
their heads down, polishing armor, carrying buckets of water to the horselines, sharpening swords or
lance points. At least it was not the dead walking again. The most firm-hearted of men could lose their
will when spirits rose from their graves, and Rand needed his army to be strong.
Need. No longer was it about what Rand wanted or what he wished. Everything he did focused only on
need, and what he needed most was the lives of those who followed him. Soldiers to fight, and to die, to
prepare the world for the Last Battle. Tarmon Gai'don was coming. What he needed was for them all to be
strong enough to win.
To the far left of the green, running below the modest hill where the manor rested, a twisting stream cut
the ground, sprouting with yellow stickfinger reeds and scrub oak that had yet to send out spring buds. A
small waterway, to be certain, but a fine source of fresh water for the army.
Just outside the window, the winds suddenly righted themselves, and the flags whipped around, blowing
in the other direction. So it hadn't been the needles after all, but the banners that had been in the wrong.
Min let out a soft sigh, and he could feel her relief, though she still worried about him. That emotion was
perpetual, lately. He felt it from all of them, each of the four bundles of emotions tucked away in the back
of his mind. Three for the women he had allowed to place themselves there, one for the woman who had
forced her way in against his will. One of them was drawing closer. Aviendha, coming with Rhuarc to
meet with Rand at the manor house.
Each of the four women would regret their decision to bond him. He wished he could regret his decision
to let them—or, at least, his decision to allow the three he loved. But the truth was that he needed Min,
needed her strength and her love. He would use her as he used so many others. No, there was no place in
him for regret. He just wished he could banish guilt as easily.
Hyena! a voice said distantly in Rand's head. My love. . . . Lews Therin Telamon, Kinslayer, was
relatively quiet this day. Rand tried not to think too hard about the things Semirhage had said on the day
when Rand had
TEARS FROM STEEL
55
lost his hand. She was one of the Forsaken; she would say anything if she thought it would bring her
target pain.
She tortured an entire city to prove herself, Lews Therin whispered. She has killed a thousand men a thousand
different ways to see how their screams would differ from one another. But she rarely lies. Rarely.
Rand pushed the voice away.
"Rand," Min said, softer than before.
He turned to look at her. She was lithe and slight of build, and he often felt that he towered over her. She
kept her hair in short ringlets, the color dark—but not as dark as her deep, worried eyes. As always, she
had chosen to wear a coat and trousers. Today, they were of a deep green, much like the needles on the
pines outside. Yet, as if to contradict her tailored choice, she had had the outfit made to accentuate her
figure. Silver embroidery in the shape of bonabell flowers ran around the cuffs, and lace peeked out from
the sleeves beneath. She smelled faintly of lavender, perhaps from the soap she'd taken to most recently.
Why wear trousers only to trim herself up with lace? Rand had long abandoned trying to understand
women. Understanding them would not help him reach Shayol Ghul. Besides, he didn't need to
understand women in order to use them. Particularly if they had information he needed.
He gritted his teeth. No, he thought. No, there are lines I will not cross. There are things even I will not do.
"You're thinking about her again," Min said, almost accusatory.
He often wondered if there was such a thing as a bond that worked only one way. He would have given
much for one of those.
"Rand, she's one of the Forsaken," Min continued. "She would have killed all of us without a second
thought."
"She wasn't intending to kill me," Rand said softly, turning away from Min and looking out the window
again. "Me she would have held."
Min cringed. Pain, worry. She was thinking of the twisted male a'dam that Semirhage had brought,
hidden, when she'd come impersonating the Daughter of the Nine Moons. The Forsaken's disguise had
been disrupted by Cadsuane's ter'angreal, allowing Rand to recognize Semirhage. Or, at least, allowing
Lews Therin to recognize her.
The exchange had ended with Rand losing a hand but gaining one of the Forsaken as his prisoner. The last
time he'd been in a similar situation, it hadn't ended well. He still didn't know where Asmodean had gone
or why the weasel of a man had fled in the first place, but Rand did suspect that he had betrayed much
about Rand's plans and activities.
56
THE GATHERING STORM
Should have killed him. Should have killed them all.
Rand nodded, then froze. Had that been Lews Therin's thought or his own? hews Therin, Rand thought. Are
you there?
He thought he heard laughter. Or perhaps it was sobbing.
Burn you! Rand thought. Talk to me! The time is coming. I need to know what you know! How did you seal the Dark
One's prison? What went wrong, and why did it leave the prison flawed? Speak to me!
Yes, that was definitely sobbing, not laughter. Sometimes it was hard to tell with Lews Therin. Rand
continued to think of the dead man as a separate individual from himself, regardless of what Semirhage
had said. He had cleansed saidin\ The taint was gone and it could touch his mind no longer. He was not
going to go insane.
The descent into terminal madness can be . . . abrupt. He heard her words again, spoken for the others to hear.
His secret was finally out. But Min had seen a viewing of Rand and another man melded together. Didn't
that mean that he and Lews Therin were two separate people, two individuals forced into one body?
It makes no difference that his voice is real, Semirhage had said. In fact, it makes his situation worse. . . .
Rand watched a particular group of six soldiers inspect the horselines that ran along the right side of the
green, between the last line of tents and the line of trees. They checked the hooves one at a time.
Rand couldn't think about his madness. He also couldn't think about what Cadsuane was doing with
Semirhage. That left only his plans. The north and the east must be as one. The west and the south must be as
one. The two must be as one. That was the answer he'd received from the strange creatures beyond the red
stone doorway. It was all he had to go on.
North and east. He had to force the lands into peace, whether they wanted it or not. He had a tenuous
balance in the east, with Illian, Mayene, Cairhien and Tear all under his control in one way or another.
The Seanchan ruled in the south, with Altara, Amadicia and Tarabon under their control. Murandy might
soon be theirs, if they were pressing in that direction. That left Andor and Elayne.
Elayne. She was distant, far to the east, but he could still feel her bundle of emotions in his head. At such
a distance, it was difficult to tell much, but he thought she was . . . relieved. Did that mean that her
struggle for power in Andor was going well? What of the armies that had besieged her? And what were
those Borderlanders up to? They had left their posts, joining together and marching south to find Rand,
but giving no
TEARS FROM STEEL
57
explanation of what they wanted of him. They were some of the best soldiers west of the Spine of the
World. Their help would be invaluable at the Last Battle. But they had left the northlands. Why?
He was loath to confront them, however, for fear it could mean yet another fight. One he couldn't afford
at the moment. Light! He would have thought that, of all people, he could have depended on the
Border-landers to support him against the Shadow.
No matter, not for the moment. He had peace, or something close to it, in most of the land. He tried not to
think about the recently placated rebellion against him in Tear or the volatility of the borders with
Sean-chan lands, or the plottings of the nobility in Cairhien. Every time he thought he had a nation secure,
it seemed a dozen others fell apart. How could he bring peace to a people who refused to accept it?
Min's fingers tightened on his arm, and he took a deep breath. He did what he could, and for now, he had
two goals. Peace in Arad Doman and a truce with the Seanchan. The words he'd received beyond the
doorway were now clear: He could not fight both the Seanchan and the Dark One. He had to keep the
Seanchan from advancing until the Last Battle was over. After that, the Light could burn them all.
Why had the Seanchan ignored his requests for a meeting? Were they angered that he had captured
Semirhage? He had let the ml'dam go free. Did that not speak of his good faith? Arad Doman would
prove his intentions. If he could end the fight in Almoth Plain, he could show the Seanchan that he was
serious in his suits for peace. He would make them see!
Rand took a deep breath, studying out the window. Bashere's eight thousand soldiers were erecting
peaked tents and digging an earthen moat and wall around the green. The growing bulwark of deep brown
contrasted with the white tents. Rand had ordered the Asha'man to help with the digging, and though he
doubted they enjoyed the humble work, it did speed the process greatly. Besides, Rand suspected that
they—like he himself—secretly savored any excuse to hold saidin. He could see a small group of them in
their stiff black coats, weaves spinning around them as they dug up another patch of ground. There were
ten of them in the camp, though only Flinn, Naeff and Narishma were full Asha'man.
The Saldaeans worked quickly, wearing their short coats as they cared for their mounts and set pickets.
Others took shovelfuls of dirt from the Asha'man mound and used it to pack into the bulwark. Rand could
see there was that displeasure on the faces of many of the hawk-nosed Saldaeans. They didn't like making
camp in a wooded area, even one as sparsely flecked
58
THE GATHERING STORM
with pine as this hillside. Trees made cavalry charges difficult and could hide enemies as they
approached.
Davram Bashere himself rode slowly through the camp, barking orders through that thick mustache of
his. Beside him walked Lord Tel-laen, a portly man in a long coat and wearing a thin Domani mustache.
He was an acquaintance of Bashere's.
Lord Tellaen put himself at risk by housing Rand; sheltering the troops of the Dragon Reborn could be
seen as treason. But who was there to punish him? Arad Doman was in chaos, the throne under threat
from several rebel factions. And then there was the great Domani general Rodel Ituralde and his
surprisingly effective war against the Seanchan to the south.
Like his men, Bashere went about unarmored in a short blue coat. He also wore a pair of the baggy
trousers that he favored, the bottoms tucked into his knee-high boots. What did Bashere think of being
caught in Rand's ta'veren web? In being, if not in direct opposition to the will of his queen, at least
uncomfortably to the side of it? How long had it been since he had reported to his rightful ruler? Hadn't
he promised Rand that his queen's support would be speedy in coming? How many months ago had that
been?
/ am the Dragon Reborn, Rand thought I break all covenants and vows. Old allegiances are unimportant. Only
Tarmon Gai'don matters. Tarmon Gai'don, and the servants of the Shadow.
"I wonder if we'll find Graendal here," Rand said thoughtfully.
"Graendal?" Min asked. "What makes you think she might be?"
Rand shook his head. Asmodean had said Graendal was in Arad Doman, though that had been months
ago. Was she still here? It seemed plausible; it was one of the few major nations where she could be.
Graendal liked to have a hidden base of power far from where the other Forsaken lurked; she wouldn't
have set up in Andor, Tear or Illian. Nor would she have been caught in the lands to the southwest, not
with the Seanchan invasion.
She would have a hidden retreat somewhere. That was how she operated. Probably in the mountains,
secluded, somewhere here in the north. He couldn't be sure she was in Arad Doman, though it felt right to
him, from what he knew of her. From what Lews Therin knew of her.
But it was only a possibility. He would be careful, watching for her. Each of the Forsaken that he
removed would make the Last Battle that much easier to fight. It would—
TEARS FROM STEEL
59
Soft footsteps approached his closed door.
Rand released Min and they both spun, Rand reaching for his sword— a useless gesture, now. The loss of
his hand, though it wasn't his primary sword hand, would leave him vulnerable if he were to face a skilled
opponent. Even with saidin to provide a far more potent weapon, his first instinct was for the sword. He'd
have to change that. It might get him killed someday.
The door opened and Cadsuane strode in, as confident as any queen at court. She was a handsome
woman, with dark eyes and an angular face. Her dark gray hair was up in a bun, a dozen tiny golden
ornaments—each one a ter'angreal or angreal—hanging in their places atop it. Her dress was of a simple,
thick wool, tied at the waist with a yellow belt, with more yellow embroidery across the collar. The dress
itself was green, which was not uncommon, as that was her Ajah. Rand sometimes felt that her stern
face—ageless, like that of any Aes Sedai who had worked long enough with the Power—would have fit
better in the Red Ajah.
He relaxed his hand on his sword, though he did not release it. He fingered the cloth-tied hilt. The weapon
was long, slightly curved, and the lacquered scabbard was painted with a long, sinuous dragon of red and
gold. It looked as if it had been designed specifically for Rand— and yet it was centuries old, unearthed
only recently. How odd, that they should find this now, he thought, and make a gift of it to me, completely
unaware of what they were holding. . . .
He had taken to wearing the sword immediately. It felt right beneath his fingers. He had told no one, not
even Min, that he had recognized the weapon. And not, oddly, from Lews Therin's memories—but Rand's
own.
Cadsuane was accompanied by several others. Nynaeve was expected; she often followed Cadsuane these
days, like a rival cat she found encroaching on her territory. She did it for him, likely. The dark-haired
Aes Sedai had never quite given up being Wisdom of Emond's Field, no matter what she said, and she
gave no quarter to anyone she thought was abusing one under her protection. Unless, of course, Nynaeve
herself was the one doing the abusing.
Today, she wore a dress of gray with a yellow sash at the waist over her belt—a new Domani fashion, he
had heard—and had the customary red dot on her forehead. She wore a long gold necklace and slim gold
belt, with matching bracelets and finger rings, both studded with large red, green and blue gems. The
jewelry was a ter'angreal—or, rather, several of them and an angreal too—comparable to what Cadsuane
wore. Rand had
60
THEGATHERINGSTORM
occasionally heard Nynaeve muttering that her ter'angreal, with the gaudy gems, were impossible to
match to her clothing.
Where Nynaeve wasn't a surprise, Alivia was. Rand hadn't been aware that the former damane had been
involved in the . . . information gathering. Still, she was supposed to be even stronger than Nynaeve in the
One Power, so perhaps she had been brought for support. One could never be too careful where the
Forsaken were concerned.
There were streaks of white in Alivia's hair, and she was just a bit taller than Nynaeve. That white in her
hair was telling—any white or gray on a woman who wielded the One Power meant age. A great deal of
it. Alivia claimed to be four centuries old. Today, the former damane wore a strikingly red dress, as if in
an attempt to be confrontational. Most damane, once unleashed, remained timid. Not so with
Alivia—there was an intensity to her that almost suggested a Whitecloak.
He felt Min stiffen, and he felt her displeasure. Alivia would help Rand die, eventually. That had been one
of Min's viewings—and Min's viewings were never wrong. Except that she'd said she'd been wrong about
Moiraine. Perhaps that meant that he wouldn't have to ...
No. Anything that made him think of living through the Last Battle, anything that made him hope, was
dangerous. He had to be hard enough to accept what was coming to him. Hard enough to die when the
time came.
You said we could die, Lews Therin said in the back of his mind. You promised!
Cadsuane said nothing as she walked across the room, helping herself to a cup of the spiced wine that sat
on a small serving table beside the bed. Then she sat down in one of the red cedar chairs. At least she
hadn't demanded that he pour the wine for her. That sort of thing wasn't beyond her.
"Well, what did you learn?" he asked, walking from the window and pouring himself a cup of wine as
well. Min walked to the bed—with its frame of cedar logs and a skip-peeled headboard stained deeply
reddish brown—and sat down, hands in her lap. She watched Alivia carefully.
Cadsuane raised an eyebrow at the sharpness in Rand's voice. He sighed, forcing down his annoyance. He
had asked her to be his counselor, and he had agreed to her stipulations. Min said there was something
important he would need to learn from Cadsuane—that was another viewing— and in truth, he had found
her advice useful on more than one occasion. She was worth her constant demands for decorum.
TEARS FROM STEEL
6I
"How did the questioning go, Cadsuane Sedai?" he asked in a more moderate tone.
She smiled to herself. "Well enough."
"Well enough?" Nynaeve snapped. She had made no promises to Cadsuane about civility. "That woman is
infuriating!"
Cadsuane sipped her wine. "I wonder what else one could expect from one of the Forsaken, child. She has
had a great deal of time to practice being . . . infuriating."
"Rand, that . . . creature is a stone," Nynaeve said, turning to him. "She's yielded barely a single useful
sentence despite days of questioning! All she does is explain how inferior and backward we are, with the
occasional aside that she's eventually going to kill us all." Nynaeve reached up to her long, single
braid—but stopped herself short of tugging on it. She was getting better about that. Rand wondered why
she bothered, considering how obvious her temper was.
"For all the girl's dramatic talk," Cadsuane said, nodding to Nynaeve, "she has a reasonable grasp on the
situation. Phaw! When I said 'well enough' you were to interpret it as 'as well as you might expect, given
our unfortunate constraints.' One cannot blindfold an artist, then be surprised when he has nothing to
paint."
"This isn't art, Cadsuane," Rand said dryly. "It's torture." Min shared a glance with him, and he felt her
concern. Concern for him? He wasn't the one being tortured.
The box, Lews Therin whispered. We should have died in the box. Then . . . then it would be over.
Cadsuane sipped her wine. Rand hadn't tasted his—he already knew that the spices were so strong as to
render the drink unpalatable. Better that than the alternative.
"You press us for results, boy," Cadsuane said. "And yet you deny us the tools we need to get them.
Whether you name it torture, questioning, or baking, I call it foolishness. Now, if we were allowed to—"
"No!" Rand growled, waving a hand ... a stump ... at her. "You will not threaten or hurt her."
Time spent in a dark box, being pulled forth and being beaten repeatedly. He would not have a woman in his
power treated the same way. Not even one of the Forsaken. "You may question her, but some things I will
not allow."
Nynaeve sniffed. "Rand, she's one of the Forsaken, dangerous beyond reason!"
"I am aware of the threat," Rand said flatly, holding up the stump
62
THE GATHERING STORM
where his left hand had been. The metallic gold and red tattoo of a dragon's body sparkled in the
lamplight. Its head had been consumed in the Fire that had nearly killed him.
Nynaeve took a deep breath. "Yes, well, then you must see that normal rules shouldn't apply to her!"
"I said no!" Rand said. "You will question her, but you will not hurt her!" Not a woman. I will keep to this
one shred of light inside me. I've caused the deaths and sorrows of too many women already.
"If that is what you demand, boy," Cadsuane said tersely, "then that is what shall be done. Just don't
whine when we are unable to drag out of her what she had for breakfast yesterday, let alone the locations
of the other Forsaken. One begins to wonder why you insist we continue this farce at all. Perhaps we
should simply turn her over to the White Tower and be done with it."
Rand turned away. Outside, the soldiers had finished with the horse-lines. They looked good. Even and
straight, the animals given just the right amount of slack.
Turn her over to the White Tower? That would never happen. Cadsuane wouldn't let Semirhage out of her
grip until she got the answers she wanted. The wind still blew outside, his own banners flapping before
his eyes.
"Turn her over to the White Tower, you say?" he said, glancing back into the room. "Which White
Tower? Would you entrust her to Elaida? Or did you mean the others? I doubt that Egwene would be
pleased if I dropped one of the Forsaken in her lap. Egwene might just let Semirhage go and take me
captive instead. Force me to kneel before the White Tower's justice and gentle me just to give her another
notch in her belt."
Nynaeve frowned. "Rand! Egwene would never—"
"She's Amyrlin," he said, downing his cup of wine in one gulp. It was as putrid as he recalled. "Aes Sedai
to the core. I'm just another pawn to her."
Yes, Lews Therin said. We need to stay away from all of them. They refused to help us, you know. Refused! Said my
plan was too reckless. That left me with only the Hundred Companions, no women to form a circle. Traitors! This is
their fault. But. . . but I'm the one who killed Hyena. Why?
Nynaeve said something, but Rand ignored her. Lews Therin? he said to the voice. What was it you did?
The women wouldn't help? Why?
But Lews Therin had begun sobbing again, and his voice grew distant.
TEARS FROM STEEL
63
"Tell me!" Rand yelled, throwing his cup down. "Burn you, Kinslayer! Speak to me!"
The room fell silent.
Rand blinked. He'd never . . . never tried speaking to Lews Therin out loud where others could hear. And they knew.
Semirhage had spoken of the voice that he heard, dismissing Rand as if he were a common madman.
Rand reached up, running a hand through his hair. Or he tried to ... but he used the arm that was only a stump, and it
accomplished nothing.
Light! he thought. I'm losing control. Half the time, I don't know which voice is mine and which is his. This was
supposed to get better when I cleansed saidin/ / was supposed to be safe. . . .
Not safe, Lews Therin muttered. We were already mad. Can't turn back from that now. He began to cackle, but
the laughter turned to sobs.
Rand looked around the room. Min's dark eyes were so worried he had to turn away. Alivia—who had
watched the exchange about Semirhage with those penetrating eyes of hers—seemed too knowing.
Ny-naeve finally gave in and tugged on her braid. For once, Cadsuane didn't chastise him for his outburst.
Instead she just sipped her wine. How could she stand the stuff?
The thought was trivial. Ridiculous. He wanted to laugh. Only, the sound wouldn't come out. He couldn't
summon even a wry humor, not anymore. Light! I can't keep this up. My eyes see as if in a fog, my hand is
burned away, and the old wounds in my side rip open if I do anything more strenuous than breathe. I'm dry, like an
overused well. I need to finish my work here and get to Shayol Ghul.
Otherwise, there won't be anything left of me for the Dark One to kill.
That wasn't a thought to cause laughter; it was one to cause despair. But Rand did not weep, for tears
could not come from steel.
For the moment, Lews Therin's cries seemed enough for both of them.
CHAPTER
2
The Nature of Pain
Egwene stood up straight, backside aflame with the now-familiar agony of a solid beating beneath the
hands of the Mistress of Novices. She felt like a rug that had just been pounded free of its dust. Despite
that, she calmly straightened her white skirts, then turned to the room's mirror and calmly dabbed the tears
from the corners of her eyes. Only one tear in each eye this time. She smiled to her reflection, and her
twin selves nodded to one another in satisfaction.
A small, dark-paneled room reflected behind her on the mirror's silvery surface. Such a stern place it was,
a sturdy stool in the corner, the top darkened and smoothed from years and years of use. A blockish desk,
set with the Mistress of Novices' thick tome. The narrow table directly behind Egwene had some
carvings, but its leather padding was far more distinctive. Many a novice—and not a few Accepted—had
bent down across that table, bearing the punishment for disobedience. Egwene could almost imagine that
the table's dark color had come from repeated tearstains. Many of her own had been shed there.
But none today. Only two tears, and neither had fallen from her cheeks. Not that she didn't hurt; her entire
body seemed to burn from the pain. Indeed, the severity of those beatings had increased the longer she
continued to defy the powers in the White Tower. But as the beatings had grown more frequent and more
painful, Egwene's resolve to endure
64
THE NATURE OF PAIN
65
had grown as well. She hadn't yet managed to embrace and accept the pain as the Aiel did, but she felt
that she was close. The Aiel could laugh during the most cruel of tortures. Well, she could smile the
moment she stood up.
Each lash she endured, each pain she suffered, was a victory. And victory was always a reason for
happiness, no matter how one's pride or one's skin burned.
Standing beside the table behind Egwene, reflected in the mirror, was the Mistress of Novices herself.
Silviana looked down at the leather strap in her hands, frowning. Her ageless square face seemed just
faintly confused; she regarded the strap as one might a knife that refused to cut or a lamp that refused to
light.
The woman was of the Red Ajah, a fact reflected in the trim on the hem of her simple gray dress and the
fringed shawl on her shoulders. She was tall and stocky and she had her black hair back in a bun. In most
ways Egwene considered her a superior Mistress of Novices. Even if she had administered a ridiculous
number of punishments to Egwene. Perhaps because of that. Silviana did her duty. Light knew there were
few enough in the Tower lately of whom that could be said!
Silviana looked up and met Egwene's eyes in the mirror. She quickly put down the strap and washed all
emotion from her face. Egwene turned around calmly.
Uncharacteristically, Silviana sighed. "When will you give this up, child?" she asked. "You've proven
your point quite admirably, I must say, but you must know that I will continue to punish you until you
submit. Proper order must be maintained."
Egwene held in her shock. The Mistress of Novices rarely addressed Egwene except to offer instruction
or reprobation. Still, there had been cracks before. . . .
"Proper order, Silviana?" Egwene asked. "As it has been maintained elsewhere in the Tower?"
Silviana s lips drew back in a line. She turned and made a notation in her book. "I will see you in the
morning. Off to dinner with you."
The morning punishment would be because Egwene had called the Mistress of Novices by her name
without adding the honorific "Sedai" to the end. And likely because both knew that Egwene would not
curtsy before she left.
"I will return in the morning," Egwene said, "but dinner must wait. I have been ordered to attend Elaida
this evening as she eats." This session
66
THE GATHERING STORM
with Silviana had gone long—Egwene had brought quite a list of infractions with her—and now she
wouldn't have time to eat. Her stomach complained at the prospect.
Silviana showed just a brief moment of emotion. Was it surprise? "And you said nothing of this earlier?"
"Would it have changed anything if I had?"
Silviana did not respond to the question. "You will eat after attending the Amyrlin, then. I shall leave
instructions for the Mistress of the Kitchens to hold you some food. Considering how often you are being
given Healing these days, child, you will need to take your meals. I won't have you collapsing from lack
of nourishment."
Stern, yet fair. A pity this one had found her way to the Red. "Very well," Egwene said.
"And after eating," Silviana said, raising a finger, "you shall return to me for showing disrespect to the
Amyrlin Seat. She is never to be known as simply 'Elaida' to you, child." She turned down to her ledger,
adding, "Besides, Light only knows what kind of trouble you'll be in by this evening."
As Egwene left the small chamber behind—entering a wide, gray-stoned hallway with floor tiles of green
and red—she considered that last comment. Perhaps it hadn't been surprise that Silviana had shown upon
hearing of Egwene's visit to Elaida. Perhaps it had been sympathy. Elaida would not react well when
Egwene stood up to her the way she had to all others in the Tower.
Was that why Silviana had decided to bring Egwene back for a final strapping after eating? With the
orders Silviana had given, Egwene would be required to take food before returning for her punishment,
even if Elaida heaped the strappings upon her.
It was a small kindness, but Egwene was grateful for it. Enduring the daily punishments was difficult
enough without skipping meals.
As she pondered, two Red sisters—Katerine and Barasine—approached her. Katerine held a brass cup.
Another dose of forkroot. Elaida wanted to make certain that Egwene couldn't channel a trickle during the
meal, it seemed. Egwene took the cup without protesting and downed it in a single gulp, tasting the faint,
yet characteristic, hint of mint. She handed the cup back to Katerine with an offhanded gesture, and the
woman had no choice but to accept it. Almost as if she were a royal cupbearer.
Egwene didn't head for Elaida's quarters immediately. The overly long punishment's intrusion into the
dinner hour ironically left her with
THE NATURE OF PAIN
67
a few spare moments—and she didn't want to arrive early, for that would show Elaida deference. So
instead she lingered outside the door of the Mistress of Novices with Katerine and Barasine. Would a
certain figure come to visit the study?
In the distance, small clusters of sisters walked the hallway's tiles of green and red. There was a furtive
cast to their eyes, like hares venturing into a clearing to nibble at leaves, yet fearing the predator who hid
in the shadows. Sisters in the Tower these days always wore their shawls, and they never went about
alone. Some even held the Power, as if afraid of being jumped by footpads here in the White Tower itself.
"Are you pleased with this?" Egwene found herself asking. She glanced at Katerine and Barasine; both
were, coincidentally, also part of the group that had first captured Egwene.
"What was that, child?" Katerine asked coolly. "Speaking to a sister without being asked a question first?
Are you so eager for more punishment?" She wore a conspicuous amount of red, her dress a bright
crimson slashed with black. Her dark hair curled slightly in its cascade down her back.
Egwene ignored the threat. What more could they do to her? "Set aside the bickering for a moment,
Katerine," Egwene said, watching a group of Yellows pass, their step quickening as they saw the two
Reds. "Set aside the posturing for authority and the threats. Put these things away and look. Are you proud
of this? The Tower spent centuries without an Amyrlin being raised from the Red. Now, when you finally
have a chance, your chosen leader has done this to the Tower. Women who won't meet the eyes of those
they do not know familiarly, sisters who travel in clusters. The Ajahs behave as if they are at war with one
another!"
Katerine sniffed at the comment, though the lanky Barasine hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the
group of Yellows hurrying down the corridor, several of them firing glances back at the two Reds.
"This was not caused by the Amyrlin," Katerine said. "It was created by your foolish rebels and their
betrayal!"
My rebels? Egwene thought with an inward smile. So you now see them as "mine," rather than regarding me
as just a poor Accepted who was duped? That's progress.
"Were we the ones who pulled down a sitting Amyrlin?" Egwene asked. "Were we the ones who turned
Warder against Warder, or the ones who failed to contain the Dragon Reborn? Have we chosen an
Amyrlin who is so power-hungry, she's ordered the construction of her own palace?
68
THE GATHERING STOKM
A woman who has every sister wondering if she'll be the next to be stripped of the shawl?"
Katerine didn't respond, as though realizing that she shouldn't be drawn into an argument with a mere
novice. Barasine still watched the distant Yellows, her eyes wide. Worried.
"I should think," Egwene said, "that the Red should not be the ones sheltering Elaida, but should instead
provide her fiercest critics. For Elaida's legacy will be your own. Remember that."
Katerine glanced at her, eyes flaring, and Egwene suppressed a cringe. Perhaps that last had been too
straightforward.
"You will report to the Mistress of Novices tonight, child," Katerine informed her. "And explain how you
showed disrespect to sisters and to the Amyrlin herself."
Egwene held her tongue. Why was she wasting her time trying to convince Reds?
The aged wooden door behind her snapped shut, making Egwene jump and glance over her shoulder. The
tapestries to either side stirred slightly, then went still. Egwene hadn't realized that she'd left the door open
just a crack as she'd left. Had Silviana listened to the conversation?
There was no more time to dawdle. It appeared that Alviarin wasn't going to come this evening. Where
was she? She always arrived for punishment right around the time that Egwene finished. Egwene shook
her head, then strode away down the hallway. The two Reds followed—they stayed with her increasingly
now, following her, watching her, at all times except when Egwene visited the quarters of other Ajahs for
training. She tried to act as if those two sisters were an honorary retinue, rather than her jailers. She also
tried to ignore the pain of her backside.
All signs indicated that Egwene was winning her war against Elaida. Earlier, at lunch, Egwene had heard
the novices gossiping about the dramatic failure Elaida had suffered in failing to keep Rand captured. The
event was several months past, now, and was supposed to have been secret. And then there was the rumor
of Asha'man bonding sisters who had been sent to destroy them. Another mission of Elaida's that wasn't
supposed to be known. Egwene had taken steps to keep these failures strong in the minds of the Tower's
occupants, much as she had with Elaida's irregular treatment of Shemerin.
Whatever the novices were gossiping about, the Aes Sedai were hearing. Yes, Egwene was winning. But
she was beginning to lose the satisfaction she'd once felt at that victory. Who could take joy in seeing the
THE NATURE OF PAIN
69
Aes Sedai unraveling like aged canvas? Who could feel glad that Tar Valon, the grandest of all great
cities, was piled with refuse? As much as Egwene might despise Elaida, she could not exult at seeing an
Amyrlin Seat lead with such incompetence.
And now, tonight, she would face Elaida in person. Egwene walked slowly through the hallways, pacing
herself so as to not arrive early. How should she proceed at the dinner? During her nine days back in the
Tower, Egwene had not so much as glimpsed Elaida. Attending the woman would be dangerous. If she
offended Elaida just a hair too much, she could find herself being sent for execution. And yet, she could
not simper and pander. She would not bow before the woman, not if it cost her life.
Egwene turned a corner, then pulled up short, nearly stumbling. The hallway ended abruptly in a
stonework wall set with a bright tile mural. The image was that of an ancient Amyrlin, sitting on an ornate
golden seat, holding forth her hand in warning to the kings and queens of the land. The plaque at the
bottom declared it to be a depiction of Caraighan Maconar, ending the rebellion in Mosadorin. Egwene
vaguely recognized the mural; the last she'd seen it, it had been on the wall of the Tower library. But
when she'd seen it there, the Amyrlin's face hadn't been a mask of blood. The dead bodies depicted
hanging from the eaves hadn't been there either.
Katerine stepped up beside Egwene, face paling. Nobody liked to speak of the unnatural way rooms and
corridors changed places in the Tower. The transformations made for a solemn reminder that squabbles
over authority were secondary to larger, horrible troubles in the world. This was the first time Egwene
had seen not only a corridor moved, but a depiction altered as well. The Dark One stirred, and the very
Pattern itself was shaking.
Egwene turned and stalked away from the misplaced mural. She couldn't focus on those problems right
now. You scrubbed a floor clean by first picking a single spot and getting to work. She'd picked her spot.
The White Tower had to be made whole.
Unfortunately, this detour was going to take more time. Egwene reluctantly hastened her pace; it wouldn't
do to be early, but she'd prefer not to be late either. Her two watchers hurried as well, skirts swishing as
they backtracked through several corridors. As they did, Egwene caught sight of Alviarin hurrying around
a corner, head down, walking toward the study of the Mistress of Novices. So she was going to her
punishment after all. What had caused her to delay?
70
THE GATHERING STORM
Two more turns and one flight of cold stone steps later, Egwene found herself cutting through the Red
Ajah section of the Tower, as that now provided the quickest route up to the Amyrlin's quarters. Red
tapestries hung on the walls, accented by crimson tiles on the floor. The women walking the corridors
wore expressions of a near uniform austerity, their shawls draped carefully over their shoulders and arms.
Here, in their own Ajah's quarters where they should be confident, they seemed insecure and suspicious,
even of those servants who bustled about, bearing the Flame of Tar Valon on their chests. Egwene passed
through the hallways, wishing she didn't have to hurry so, as it made her look cowed. There was nothing
to be done about it. At the center of the Tower, she climbed several flights of stairs, eventually reaching
the hallway that led to the Amyrlin's quarters.
Her busyness with novice chores and lessons had left her with little time to consider her confrontation
with the false Amyrlin. This was the woman who had pulled down Siuan, the woman who had beaten
Rand, and the woman who had pushed the Aes Sedai themselves to the very brink of collapse. Elaida
needed to know Egwene's anger, she needed to be humiliated and made ashamed! She. . . .
Egwene stopped in front of Elaida's gilded door. No.
She could imagine the scene easily. Elaida enraged, Egwene banished to the dark cells beneath the Tower.
What good would that do? She could not confront the woman, not yet. That would only lead to
momentary satisfaction followed by a debilitating failure.
But light, she couldn't bow to Elaida either! The Amyrlin did no such thing!
Or ... no. The Amyrlin did what was required of her. Which was more important? The White Tower, or
Egwene's pride? The only way to win this battle was to let Elaida think that she was winning. No . . . No,
the only way to win was to let Elaida think there was no battle.
Could Egwene keep a civil tongue long enough to survive this night? She wasn't certain. However, she
needed to leave this dinner with Elaida feeling that she was in control, that Egwene was properly cowed.
The best way to achieve that while maintaining some measure of pride would be to say nothing at all.
Silence. That would be her weapon this evening. Steeling herself, Egwene knocked.
Her first surprise came when an Aes Sedai opened the door. Didn't Elaida have servants to perform that
function? Egwene didn't recognize
THE NATURE OF PAIN
71
the sister, but the ageless face was obvious. The woman was of the Gray, as indicated by her shawl, and
she was slender with a full bust. Her golden brown hair fell to the middle of her back, and she had a
haunted cast to her eyes, as if she'd been under great strain recently.
Elaida sat inside. Egwene hesitated in the doorway, looking in at her rival for the first time since
departing from the White Tower with Ny-naeve and Elayne to hunt the Black Ajah, a turning point that
seemed an eternity ago. Handsome and statuesque, Elaida seemed to have lost a small measure of her
sternness. She sat, secure and smiling faintly, as if thinking on some joke that only she understood. Her
chair was almost a throne, carved, gilded and painted with red and white. There was a second place set at
the table, presumably for the nameless Gray sister.
Egwene had never visited an Amyrlin's own quarters before, but she could imagine what Siuan's might
have looked like. Simple, yet not stark. Just enough ornamentation to indicate that this was the room of
someone important, but not enough to become a distraction. Under Siuan, everything would have served a
function—perhaps several functions at once. Tables with hidden compartments. Wall hangings that
doubled as maps. Crossed swords over the hearth that were oiled, should the Warders need them.
Or perhaps that was just fancy. Regardless, not only had Elaida taken different rooms for her quarters; her
decorations were notably rich. The entire suite hadn't been decorated yet—there was talk that she was
adding to her rooms day by day—but what was there was very lavish. New silk brocades, all of red, hung
from the walls and ceilings. The Tairen rug underfoot depicted birds aflight, and was so finely woven that
it could almost be mistaken for a painting. Scattered through the room were pieces of furniture of a do2en
different styles and makes, each one lavishly carved and inlaid with ivory. Here a series of vines, there a
knobby ridged design, there crisscrossing serpents.
More infuriating than the extravagance was the stole across Elaida's shoulders. It was striped with six
colors. Not seven, but six! Though Egwene had not chosen an Ajah herself, she would have taken the
Green. But that didn't stop her from feeling a surge of anger at seeing that shawl with blue removed. One
did not simply disband one of the Ajahs, even if one were the Amyrlin Seat!
But Egwene held her tongue. This meeting was about survival. Egwene could bear straps of pain for the
good of the Tower. Could she bear Elaida's arrogance as well?
72
THE GATHERING STORM
"No curtsy?" Elaida asked as Egwene entered the room. "They said that you were stubborn. Well, then,
you shall visit the Mistress of Novices when this supper is through and inform her of the lapse. What do
you say to that?"
That you are a plague upon this structure as vile and destructive as any disease that has struck city and people in all
years past. That you—
Egwene broke her gaze away from Elaida's. And—feeling the shame of it vibrate through her very
bones—she bowed her head.
Elaida laughed, obviously taking the gesture the right way. "Honestly, I expected you to be more trouble.
It appears that Silviana does know her duty. That is well; I had worried that she, like far too many in the
Tower lately, had been shirking. Well, be busy with you. I won't wait all night to dine."
Egwene clenched her fists, but said nothing. The back wall was set with a long serving table bearing
several silver platters, their polished domed lids dripping with condensation from the heated contents.
There was also a silver soup tureen. To the side, the Gray sister hovered near the door. Light! The woman
was terrified. Egwene had rarely seen such an expression on a sister. What was causing it?
"Come, Meidani," Elaida said to the Gray. "Are you going to hover all night? Sit down!"
Egwene covered a moment of shock. Meidani? She was one of those sent by Sheriam and the others to
spy on the White Tower! As Egwene checked the contents of each platter, she shot a glance over her
shoulder. Meidani had found her way to the small, less ornate seat at Elaida's side. Did the Gray always
wear such finery to supper? Her neck sparkled with emeralds and her muted green dress was of the most
expensive silk, accentuating a bosom that might have been average on another woman, but that seemed
ample on Meidani's slender body.
Beonin said she'd warned the Gray sisters that Elaida knew they were spies. So why hadn't Meidani fled
the Tower? What was holding her here?
Well, at least now the woman's expression of terror made sense. "Meidani," Elaida said, sipping from a
goblet of wine, "you are rather wan this day. Have you been getting enough sun?"
"I have been spending a great deal of time with historical records, Elaida," Meidani said, voice uneven.
"Have you forgotten?"
"Ah, that is right," Elaida said musingly. "It will be good to know how traitors have been treated in the
past. Beheading seems too easy and simple a punishment to me. Those who split our Tower, those who
flaunt
THE NATURE OF PAIN
73
their defection, a very special reward will be needed for them. Well, continue your search then."
Meidani sat down, hands in lap. Anyone other than an Aes Sedai would have had to mop her brow free of
sweat. Egwene stirred the silver tureen, hand clutching the ladle with a white-knuckled grip. Elaida knew.
She knew that Meidani was a spy, and yet she still invited the woman to dinner. To play with her.
"Hurry up, girl," Elaida snapped at Egwene.
Egwene plucked up the tureen, the handles warm beneath her fingers, and walked over to the small table.
She filled the bowls with a brownish broth bobbing with Queen's Crown mushrooms. It smelled so
heavily peppered that any other flavor would be indistinguishable. So much food had gone bad that
without spice, the soup would be inedible.
Egwene worked mechanically, like a wagon wheel rolling behind the oxen. She didn't have to make
choices; she didn't have to respond. She just worked. She filled the soup bowls precisely, then fetched the
bread basket and placed one piece—not too crusty—on each small porcelain bread saucer. She returned
with a circular dab of butter for each, cut quickly but precisely from the larger brick with a couple of
flicks of the knife. One did not spend long as an innkeeper's daughter without learning to serve a proper
meal.
Even as she worked, she stewed. Each step was agony, and not because of her still-burning backside. That
physical pain, oddly, seemed insignificant now. It was secondary to the pain of remaining silent, the pain
of not allowing herself to confront this awful woman, so regal, so arrogant.
As the two women began their soup—pointedly ignoring the weevils in their bread—Egwene retreated to
the side of the room and stood, hands clasped before her, posture stiff. Elaida glanced at her, then smiled,
apparently seeing another sign of subservience. In reality, Egwene didn't trust herself to move, for she
feared that any activity would end with her slapping Elaida across the face. Light, but this was hard!
"What talk is there in the Tower, Meidani?" Elaida asked, dipping her bread in the soup.
"I ... don't have much time to listen. ..."
Elaida leaned forward. "Oh, surely you know something. You have ears, and even Grays must gossip.
What are they saying about those rebels?"
Meidani paled further. "I ... I ..."
"Hmm," Elaida said. "When we were novices, I don't remember you
74
THE GATHERING STORM
being so slow of wit, Meidani. You haven't impressed me these last few weeks; I begin to wonder why
you were ever given the shawl. Perhaps it never belonged on your shoulders in the first place."
Meidani's eyes opened wide.
Elaida smiled at her. "Oh, I'm only teasing you, child. Back to your meal."
She joked! Joked about how she had stolen the shawl from a woman, humiliating her to such an extent
that she fled the Tower. Light! What had happened to Elaida? Egwene had met this woman before, and
Elaida had struck her as stern, but not tyrannical. Power changed people. It appeared that in Elaida's case,
holding the Amyrlin Seat had taken her sternness and solemnity and replaced them with a heady sense of
entitlement and cruelty.
Meidani looked up. "I ... I have heard sisters express worry about the Seanchan."
Elaida waved an indifferent hand, sipping her soup. "Bah. They are too distant to be of danger to us. I
wonder if they're secretly working for the Dragon Reborn. Either way, I suspect that the rumors about
them are largely exaggerated." Elaida glanced at Egwene. "It's a source of constant amusement to me that
some will believe anything that they hear."
Egwene couldn't speak. She could barely have sputtered. How would Elaida feel about these
"exaggerated" rumors if the Seanchan slapped a cold a'dam around her idiot neck? Egwene could
sometimes feel that band on her own skin, itching, impossible to move. Sometimes, it still made her
faintly sick to move around freely, as if she felt that she should be locked away, chained to the post on the
wall by a simple loop of metal.
She knew what she had dreamed, and knew those dreams to be prophetic. The Seanchan would strike at
the White Tower itself. Elaida, obviously, discounted her warnings.
"No," Elaida said, waving for Egwene to bring another ladle of soup. "These Seanchan are not the
problem. The real danger is the complete lack of obedience shown by the Aes Sedai. What will I have to
do to end those foolish talks at the bridges? How many sisters will have to do penance before they
acknowledge my authority?" She sat, tapping her spoon against her soup cup. Egwene, at the serving
table, picked up the tureen, retrieving the ladle from its silver holder.
"Yes," Elaida mused, "if the sisters had been obedient, then the Tower wouldn't be divided. Those rebels
would have obeyed rather than running off like a silly flock of startled birds. If the sisters were obedient,
we
THE NATURE OF PAIN
75
would have the Dragon Reborn in our hands, and those horrid men training in their 'Black Tower' would
have been dealt with long ago. What do you think, Meidani?"
"I ... obedience is certainly important, Elaida."
Elaida shook her head as Egwene ladled soup into her bowl. "Anyone would admit that, Meidani. I asked
what should be done. Fortunately, I have an idea myself. Doesn't it strike you as strange that the Three
Oaths contain no mention of obedience to the White Tower? Sisters cannot lie, cannot make a weapon for
men to kill other men, and cannot use the Power as a weapon against others except in defense. Those
oaths have always seemed too lax to me. Why no oath to obey the Amyrlin? If that simple promise were
part of all of us, how much pain and difficulty could we have avoided? Perhaps some revision is in order."
Egwene stood still. Once, she herself hadn't understood the importance of the oaths. She suspected that
many a novice and Accepted had questioned their usefulness. But she had learned, as every Aes Sedai
must, their importance. The Three Oaths were what made the Aes Sedai. They were what kept the Aes
Sedai doing what was best for the world, but more than that, they were a shelter from accusations.
Changing them . . . well, it would be an unprecedented disaster. Elaida should know that. The false
Amyrlin just turned back to her soup, smiling to herself, no doubt contemplating a fourth oath to demand
obedience. Couldn't she see how that would undermine the Tower itself? It would transform the Amyrlin
from a leader to a despot!
Egwene's rage boiled within her, steaming like the soup in her hands. This woman, this . . . creature! She
was the cause of the problems in the White Tower, she was the one who caused division between rebels
and loyalists. She had taken Rand captive and beaten him. She was a disaster!
Egwene felt herself shaking. In another moment, she'd burst and let Elaida hear truth. It was boiling free
from her, and she could barely contain it.
No! she thought. /// do that, my battle ends. I lose my war.
So Egwene did the only thing she could think of to stop herself. She dumped the soup on the floor.
Brownish liquid sprayed across the delicate rug of red, yellow and green birds aflight. Elaida cursed,
jumping up from her seat and backing away from the spill. None of the liquid had gotten on her dress,
which was a shame. Egwene calmly snatched a serving towel off of the table and began to mop up the
spill.
~j6
THE GATHERING STORM
"You clumsy idiot!" Elaida snapped.
"I'm sorry," Egwene said, "I wish that hadn't happened." And she did. She wished none of this evening had occurred.
She wished Elaida weren't in control; she wished the Tower had never been broken. She wished she hadn't been
forced to spill the soup on the floor. But she had. And so she dealt with it, kneeling and scrubbing.
Elaida sputtered, pointing. "That rug is worth more than your entire village, wilder! Meidani, help her!"
The Gray didn't offer a single objection. She scurried over and grabbed a bucket of chilled water, which had been
cooling some wine, and hurried back to help Egwene. Elaida moved over to a door on the far side of the room to call
for servants.
"Send for me," Egwene whispered as Meidani knelt down to help clean.
"What?"
"Send for me to give me instruction," Egwene said quietly, glancing at Elaida, whose back was turned. "We need to
speak."
Egwene had originally intended to avoid the Salidar spies, letting Beonin act as her messenger. But she had too
many questions. Why hadn't Meidani fled the Tower? What were the spies planning? Had any of the others been
adopted by Elaida and beaten down as soundly as Meidani?
Meidani glanced at Elaida, then back at Egwene. "I may not seem it sometimes, but I'm still Aes Sedai, girl. You
cannot order me."
"I am your Amyrlin, Meidani," Egwene said calmly, wringing a towel-ful of soup into a pitcher. "And you would do
best to remember it. Unless you want the Three Oaths replaced with vows to serve Elaida for eternity."
Meidani glanced at her, then cringed at Elaida's shrill calls for servants. The poor woman had obviously seen a hard
time lately.
Egwene laid a hand on her shoulder. "Elaida can be unseated, Meidani. The Tower will be reunited. I will see it
happen, but we must keep courage. Send for me."
Meidani looked up, studying Egwene. "How . . . how do you do it? They say you are punished three and four times a
day, that you need Healing between so that they can beat you further. How can you take it?"
"I take it because I must," Egwene said, lowering her hand. "Just as we all do what we must. Your service here
watching Elaida is difficult, I can see, but know that your work is noticed and appreciated."
Egwene didn't know if Meidani really had been sent to spy on Elaida, but it was always better for a woman to think
that her suffering was for a
THE NATURE OF PAIN
77
good purpose. It seemed to have been the right thing to say, for Meidani straightened, taking heart and
nodding. "Thank you."
Elaida was returning, behind her three servants.
"Send for me," Egwene ordered Meidani again, voice a whisper. "I am one of the few in this Tower who
has a good excuse to move between the various Ajah quarters. I can help heal what has been broken, but I
will need your help."
Meidani hesitated, then nodded. "Very well."
"You!" Elaida snapped, stepping up to Egwene. "Out! I want you to tell Silviana to strap you as she's
never strapped a woman before! I want her to punish you, then Heal you on the spot, then beat you again!
Go!"
Egwene stood, handing her towel to one of the servants. Then she walked to the exit.
"And don't think that your clumsiness has allowed you to escape your duties," Elaida continued from
behind. "You will return and serve me again on another date. And if you so much as spill another drop, I
will have you locked away in a cell with no windows or lights for a week. Do you understand?"
Egwene left the room. Had this woman ever been a true Aes Sedai, in control of her emotions?
Yet Egwene herself had lost control of her emotions. She should never have let herself get to a point
where she'd been forced to drop the soup. She had underestimated how infuriating Elaida could be, but
that would not happen again. She calmed herself as she walked, breathing in and out. Rage did her no
good. You didn't get mad at the weasel who was sneaking into your yard and eating your hens. You
simply laid a trap and disposed of the animal. Anger was pointless.
Hands still smelling faintly of pepper and spices, she made her way down to the lowest level of the
Tower, to the novices' dining hall beside the main kitchens. Egwene had worked in those kitchens herself
frequently during the last nine days; every novice was required to work chores. The smells of the
place—charcoal and smoke, simmering soups and sharp, unscented soaps—were very familiar to her. The
smells weren't that different, actually, from the kitchen of her father's inn back in the Two Rivers.
The white-walled room was empty, the tables sitting unattended, though there was a small tray on one of
them, covered with a pot lid to keep it warm. Her cushion was there as well, left by the novices to soften
the hard bench. Egwene approached, but ignored the cushion as she
78
THE GATHERING STORM
always did, though she was grateful for the gesture. She sat and removed the lid from the meal.
Unfortunately, all she found was a bowl of the same brownish soup. There was no hint of the roast, gravy
or long, thin buttered beans that had made up the rest of Elaida's meal.
Still, it was food, and Egwene's stomach was grateful for it. Elaida hadn't ordered that she immediately go
for punishment, and so Silviana's order that she eat first took precedence. Or, at least, there was enough of
an argument there to protect her.
She ate quietly, alone. The soup was indeed spicy, and it tasted as much of pepper as it had smelled, but
she didn't mind. Other than that, it was actually quite good. She'd also been left a few slices of bread,
though she'd gotten the ends of the loaf. All in all, not a bad meal for someone who had thought she might
get nothing.
Egwene ate contemplatively, listening to Laras and the scullions bang pots at washing up in the other
room, surprised at how calm she felt. She had changed; something was different about her. Watching
Elaida, finally confronting the woman who had been her rival all of these months, forced her to look at
what she was doing in a new light.
She had imagined herself undermining Elaida and seizing control of the White Tower from within. Now
she realized that she didn't need to undermine Elaida. The woman was fully capable of doing that herself.
Why, Egwene could picture the reaction of the Sitters and Ajah heads when Elaida announced her
intention to change the Three Oaths!
Elaida would topple eventually, with or without Egwene's help. Egwene's duty, as Amyrlin, wasn't to
speed that fall—but to do whatever she could to hold the Tower and its occupants together. They couldn't
afford to fracture further. Her duty was to hold back the chaos and destruction that threatened them all, to
reforge the Tower. As she finished off her soup, using the last piece of bread to wipe the remnants from
the bowl, she realized she had to do whatever she could to be a strength to the sisters in the Tower. Time
was growing very short. What was Rand doing to the world without guidance? When would the Seanchan
attack to the north? They'd have to cut through Andor to get to Tar Valon, and what destruction would
that cause? Surely she had some time to reforge the Tower before the attack came, but no moments to
waste.
Egwene took her dish into the kitchen proper and washed it herself, earning a nod of approval from the
hefty Mistress of the Kitchens. After that, Egwene made her way up to Silviana's study. She needed to get
her punishment done quickly; she still intended to visit Leane tonight, as
THE NATURE OF PAIN
79
was her custom. Egwene knocked, then entered, finding Silviana at her desk, leafing through a thick tome
by the light of two silver lamps. When Egwene entered, Silviana marked the page with a small length of
red cloth, then shut it. The worn cover read Meditations on the Kindling Flame, a history of the rise of
various Amyrlins. Curious.
Egwene sat down on a stool before the desk—not flinching at the immediate sharp pain of her
backside—and spoke calmly about the evening, omitting the fact that she'd dropped the bowl of soup on
purpose. She did, however, say that she'd dropped it after Elaida had talked of revoking and changing the
Three Oaths.
Silviana looked very thoughtful at that.
"Well," the woman said, standing up and fetching her lash, "the Amyrlin has spoken."
"Yes, I have," Egwene said, standing up and positioning herself on the table, skirts and shift up for the
beating.
Silviana hesitated, and then the strapping began. Oddly, Egwene felt no desire to cry out. It hurt, of
course, but she just couldn't scream. How ridiculous the punishment was!
She remembered her pain at seeing the sisters pass in the hallways, regarding one another with fear,
suspicion and distrust. She remembered the agony of serving Elaida while holding her tongue. And she
remembered the sheer horror at the idea of everyone in the Tower being bound by oath to obey such a
tyrant.
Egwene remembered her pity for poor Meidani. No sister should be treated in such a way. Imprisonment
was one thing. But beating a woman down, toying with her, hinting at the torture to come? It was
insufferable.
Each of these things was a pain inside of Egwene, a knife to the chest, piercing the heart. As the beating
continued, she realized that nothing they could do to her body would ever compare to the pain of soul she
felt at seeing the White Tower suffer beneath Elaida's hand. Compared with those internal agonies, the
beating was ridiculous.
And so she began to laugh.
It wasn't a forced laugh. It wasn't a defiant laugh. It was the laughter of disbelief. Of incredulity. How
could they think that beating her would solve anything? It was ludicrous!
The lashing stopped. Egwene turned. Surely that wasn't all of it!
Silviana was regarding her with a concerned expression. "Child?" she asked. "Are you all right?"
"I am quite well."
80
THEGATHERINGSTORM
"You . . . are certain? How are your thoughts?"
She thinks I've broken under the strain, Egwene realized. She beats me and I laugh from it.
"My thoughts are well," Egwene said. "I don't laugh because I've been broken, Silviana. I laugh because it
is absurd to beat me."
The woman's expression darkened.
"Can't you see it?" Egwene asked. "Don't you feel the pain? The agony of watching the Tower crumble
around you? Could any beating compare to that?"
Silviana did not respond.
I understand, Egwene thought. / didn't realize what the Aiel did. I assumed that I just had to be harder, and that was
what would teach me to laugh at pain. But it's not hardness at all. It's not strength that makes me laugh. It's
understanding.
To let the Tower fall, to let the Aes Sedai fail—the pain of that would destroy her. She had to stop it, for
she was the Amyrlin Seat.
"I cannot refuse to punish you," Silviana said. "You realize that."
"Of course," Egwene said. "But please remind me of something. What was it you said about Shemerin?
Why was it Elaida got away with taking the shawl from her?"
"It was because Shemerin accepted it," Silviana replied. "She treated herself as if she really had lost the
shawl. She didn't fight back."
"I will not make the same mistake, Silviana. Elaida can say whatever she wants. But that doesn't change
who I am, or who any of us are. Even if she tries to change the Three Oaths, there will be those who
resist, who hold to what is correct. And so, when you beat me, you beat the Amyrlin Seat. And that
should be amusing enough to make us both laugh."
The punishment continued, and Egwene embraced the pain, took it into herself, and judged it
insignificant, impatient for the punishment to cease.
She had a lot of work to do.
CHAPTER
3
The Ways of Honor
Aviendha crouched with her spear-sisters and some True Blood scouts atop the low, grassy hill, looking
down at the refugees. They were a sorry lot, these Domani wetlanders, with dirtied faces that had not seen
a sweat tent in months, their emaciated children too hungry to cry. One sad mule pulled a single cart
among the hundred struggling people; what they hadn't piled in the vehicle they carried. There wasn't
much of either. They plodded northeast along a pathway that couldn't quite be called a road. Perhaps there
was a village in that direction. Perhaps they were just fleeing the uncertainty of the coastal lands.
The hilly landscape was open save for the occasional stand of trees. The refugees hadn't seen Aviendha
and her companions, despite the fact that they were less than a hundred paces away. She'd never
understood how wetlanders could be so blind. Didn't they watch, noting any oddities on the horizon?
Couldn't they see that traveling so near to a hilltop practically invited scouts to spy on them? They should
have secured the hill with their own scouts before coming anywhere near.
Didn't they care? Aviendha shivered. How could you not care about eyes watching you, eyes that might
belong to a man or Maiden holding a spear? Were they so eager to wake from the dream? Aviendha did
not fear death, but there was a very big difference between embracing death and wishing for it.
81
82
THE GATHERING STORM
Cities, she thought, they're the problem. Cities wete stinking, festering places, like sores that never
healed. Some were better than others— Elayne did an admirable job with Caemlyn—but the best of them
gathered too many people and taught them to grow comfortable staying in one place. If those refugees had
been accustomed to travel and had learned to use their own feet, rather than relying on horses as
wetlanders so often did, then it would not be so difficult for them to leave their towns. Among the Aiel,
the craftsmen were trained to defend themselves, the children could live off the land for days, and even
blacksmiths could travel great distances quickly. An entire sept could be on the move within an hour,
carrying everything they needed on their backs.
Wetlanders were strange, doubtless. Still, she felt pity for the refugees. The emotion surprised her. While
she was not heartless, her duty lay elsewhere, with Rand al'Thor. She had no reason to feel heartsore for a
group of wetlanders she'd never met. But time spent with her first-sister, Elayne Trakand, had taught her
that not all wetlanders were soft and weak. Just most of them. There was/7 in caring for those who could
not care for themselves.
Watching these refugees, Aviendha tried to see them as Elayne would, but she still struggled to
understand Elayne's form of leadership. It was not the simple leadership of a group of Maidens on a
raid—that was both instinctive and efficient. Elayne would not watch these refugees for signs of danger
or hidden soldiers. Elayne would feel a responsibility to them, even if they were not of her own people.
She would find a way to send food, perhaps use her troops to secure a safe area for them to
homestead—and in doing so, acquire a piece of this country for herself.
Once, Aviendha would have left these thoughts to clan chiefs and roofmistresses. But she wasn't a
Maiden any longer, and she had accepted that. She now lived under a different roof. She was ashamed
that she had resisted the change for so long.
But that left her with a problem. What honor was there for her now? No longer a Maiden, not quite a
Wise One. Her entire identity had been wrapped up in those spears, her self forged into their steel as
surely as the carbon that strengthened them. She had grown from childhood certain that she would be Far
Dareis Mai. Indeed, she had joined the Maidens as soon as possible. She had been proud of her life and of
her spear-sisters. She would have served her clan and sept until the day when she finally fell to the spear,
bleeding her last water onto the parched earth of the Three-fold Land.
THE WAYS OF HONOR
83
This was not the Three-fold Land, and she had heard some algai'd'siswai wonder if the Aiel would ever
return there. Their lives had changed. She didn't trust change. It couldn't be spotted or stabbed; it was
more silent than any scout, more deadly than any assassin. No, she'd never trust it, but she would accept
it. She would learn Elayne's ways and how to think like a chief.
She would find honor in her new life. Somehow.
"They are no threat," whispered Heirn, crouching with the True Bloods on the other side of the Maidens.
Rhuarc watched the refugees, alert. "The dead walk," the Taardad clan chief said, "and men fall at random
to Sightblinder's evil, their blood corrupted like the water of a bad well. Those might be poor folk fleeing
the ravages of war. Or they might be something else. We keep our distance."
Aviendha glanced at the increasingly distant line of refugees. She did not think Rhuarc was right; these
were not ghosts or monsters. There was always something . . . wrong about those. They left her with an
itch, as if she were about to be attacked.
Still, Rhuarc was wise. One learned to be careful in the Three-fold Land, where a tiny twig could kill. The
group of Aiel slipped off the hilltop and down onto the brown-grassed plain beyond. Even after months
spent in the wetlands, Aviendha found the landscape strange. Trees here were tall and long-limbed, with
too many buds. When the Aiel crossed patches of yellow spring grass among the fallen winter leaves,
they all seemed so full of water that she half-expected the blades and leaves to burst beneath her feet. She
knew the wetlanders said that this spring was unnaturally slow starting, but already it was more fertile
than her homeland.
In the Three-fold Land, this meadow—with the hills to provide watchpoints and shelter—would have
immediately been seized by a sept and used for farming. Here, it was just one of a thousand different
untouched patches of land. The fault lay again in those cities. The nearest ones were too distant from this
location to make it a good spot for a wet-lander farmstead.
The eight Aiel quickly crossed the grasses, weaving between hillsides, moving with speed and stealth.
Horses could not match a man's feet, what with their thunderous galloping. Terrible beasts—why did the
wetlanders insist on riding them? Baffling. Aviendha could begin to understand how a chief or queen
must think, but she knew that she'd never completely understand wetlanders. They were just too strange.
Even Rand al'Thor.
Especially Rand al'Thor. She smiled, thinking of his earnest eyes. She
84
THE GATHERING STORM
remembered the scent of him—wetlander soaps, which smelled of oil, mixed with that particular earthy
musk that was all his own. She would marry him. She was as determined as Elayne in that regard; now
that they were first-sisters, they could marry him together as was proper. Only, how could Aviendha
marry anyone, now? Her honor had been in her spears, but Rand al'Thor now wore those at his waist,
beaten and forged into a belt buckle, given to him by her own hand.
He had offered her marriage once. A man! Offering marriage! Another of those strange wetlander
customs. Even disregarding the strangeness of it—disregarding the insult his proposal had shown
Elayne—Aviendha could never have accepted Rand al'Thor as her husband. Couldn't he understand that a
woman must bring honor to a marriage? What could a mere apprentice offer? Would he have her come to
him as an inferior? It would shame her completely to do that!
He must not have understood. She did not think him cruel, only dense. She would come to him when she
was ready, then lay the bridal wreath at his feet. And she couldn't do that until she knew who she was.
The ways of ji'e'toh were complex. Aviendha knew how to measure honor as a Maiden, but Wise Ones
were different creatures entirely. She had thought she was gaining some small amount of honor in their
eyes. They had allowed her, for instance, to spend a great deal of time with her first-sister in Caemlyn.
But then, suddenly, Dorindha and Nadere had arrived and informed Aviendha that she had been ignoring
her training. They had seized her like a child caught listening furtively outside the sweat tent, towing her
away to join the rest of her clan as they left for Arad Doman.
And now . . . and now the Wise Ones treated her with less respect than they had before! They offered her
no teaching. Somehow, she had misstepped in their eyes. That made her stomach twist. To shame herself
before the other Wise Ones was almost as bad as showing fear before one as brave as Elayne!
So far, the Wise Ones had allowed Aviendha some honor by letting her serve punishments, but she didn't
know how she had shamed herself in the first place. Asking would—of course—only bring more shame.
Until she unwove the problem, she could not meet her toh. Worse, there was a real danger of her making
the mistake again. Until she sorted out this problem, she would remain an apprentice, and she would
never be able to bring an honorable bridal wreath to Rand al'Thor.
THE WAYS OF HONOR
85
Aviendha gritted her teeth. Another woman might have wept, but what good would that have done?
Whatever her mistake, she had brought it upon herself, and it was her duty to right it. She would find
honor again and she would marry Rand al'Thor before he died at the Last Battle.
That meant that whatever it was she had to learn, she needed to do so quickly. Very quickly.
They met up with another group of Aiel waiting in a small clearing amid a stand of pine trees. The ground
was thick with discarded brown needles, the sky broken by the towering trunks. The group was small by
the standards of clans and septs, barely two hundred people. In the middle of the clearing stood four Wise
Ones, each wearing the characteristic brown woolen skirt and white blouse. Aviendha wore similar attire,
which now felt as natural to her as the cadin'sor once had. The scouting party split up, men and Maidens
moving to join members of their clans or societies. Rhuarc joined the Wise Ones, and Aviendha followed
him.
Each of the Wise Ones—Amys, Bair, Melaine, and Nadere—gave her a glance. Bair, the only Aiel with
the group who wasn't Taardad or Goshien, had arrived only recently, perhaps to coordinate with the
others. Whatever the reason, none of them seemed pleased. Aviendha hesitated. If she left now, would it
seem as if she were trying to avoid their attention? Did she instead dare stay, and risk incurring their
further displeasure?
"Well?" Amys said to Rhuarc. Though Amys had white hair, she looked quite young. In her case, this
wasn't due to working the Power— her hair had started turning silver when she'd been a child.
"It was as the scouts described, shade of my heart," Rhuarc said. "Another pitiful band of wetlander
refugees. I saw no hidden danger in them."
The Wise Ones nodded, as if this was what they had expected. "That is the tenth band of refugees in less
than a week," said aged Bair, her watery blue eyes thoughtful.
Rhuarc nodded. "There are rumors of Seanchan attacks on harbors to the west. Perhaps the people move
inland to avoid the raids." He glanced at Amys. "This country boils like water spilled on a hearthstone.
The clans are uncertain what Rand al'Thor wishes of them."
"He was very clear," Bair noted. "He will be pleased that you and Dobraine Taborwin secured Bandar
Eban, as he asked."
Rhuarc nodded. "But still, his intentions are not clear. He asked for us to restore order. Are we then to be
like wetlander city guardsmen? That is no place for the Aiel. We are not to conquer, so we do not get the
fifth.
86
THE GATHERING STORM
And yet it feels very much like conquest, what we do. The Car'a'carns orders can be clear yet confusing
at the same time. He has a gift in that area, I think."
Bair smiled, nodding. "Perhaps he intends for us to do something with these refugees."
"And what would we do?" Amys asked, shaking her head. "Are we Shaido, expected to make gai'sbain
from wetlanders?" Her tone left little doubt as to what she thought of both Shaido and the idea of making
wet-landers gai'sbain.
Aviendha nodded in agreement. As Rhuarc said, the Car'a'carn had sent them to Arad Doman to "restore
order." But that was a wetlander concept; Aiel brought their own order with them. There was chaos to war
and battle, true, but each and every Aiel understood his place, and would act within that place. The little
children understood honor and toh, and a hold would continue to function after all of the leaders and Wise
Ones were killed.
It was not so with wetlanders. They ran about like a basket of wild lizards suddenly dropped onto hot
stones, taking no care for provisions when they fled. As soon as their leaders were occupied or distracted,
banditry and chaos ruled. The strong took from the weak, and even blacksmiths were not safe.
What could Rand al'Thor expect the Aiel to do about it? They could not teach ji'e'tob to an entire nation.
Rand al'Thor had told them to avoid killing Domani troops. But those troops—often corrupt and turned to
banditry themselves—were part of the problem.
"Perhaps he will explain more when we arrive at this manor house of his," said Melaine, shaking her
head, red-gold hair catching the light. Her pregnancy was just beginning to show beneath her Wise One
blouse. "And if he does not, then surely it is better for us to be here in Arad Doman than to spend yet
more time lounging back in the land of the treekillers."
"As you say," Rhuarc agreed. "Let us move on, then. There is still a distance to run." He moved off to
speak with Bael. Aviendha took a step away, but a harsh glance from Amys made her freeze.
"Aviendha," said the hard, white-haired woman. "How many Wise Ones went with Rhuarc to scout this
refugee train?"
"None but me," Aviendha admitted.
"Oh, and are you a Wise One now?" Bair asked.
"No," Aviendha said, quickly, then shamed herself further by blushing. "I spoke poorly."
THE WAYS OF HONOR
87
"Then you shall be punished," Bair said. "You are no longer a Maiden, Aviendha. It is not your
place to scout; that is a task for others."
"Yes, Wise One," Aviendha said, looking down. She had not thought that going with Rhuarc
would bring her shame—she had seen other Wise Ones do similar tasks.
But I am not a Wise One, she reminded herself. / am an apprentice only. Bair had not said that a Wise
One could not scout; only that it had not been Aviendha's place to go. It was about Aviendha
herself. And about whatever it was she had done—or perhaps continued to do—to provoke the
Wise Ones.
Did they think she had grown soft by spending time with Elayne? Aviendha herself worried that
that was true. During her days in Caem-lyn, she had begun to find herself enjoying the silks and
baths. By the end, she had objected only feebly when Elayne had come up with an excuse to
dress her in some impractical and frivolous garment with embroidery and lace. It was well that
the others had come for her.
The others just stood there, looking at her expectantly, faces like red desert stones, impassive and
stern. Aviendha gritted her teeth again. She would complete her apprenticeship and find honor.
She would.
The call came to begin moving, and cadin'sor-c\&d men and women did so, running together in
small groups. The Wise Ones moved as easily as the soldiers, despite their bulky skirts. Amys
touched Aviendha's arm. "You will run with me so that we can discuss your punishment."
Aviendha fell into pace beside the Wise One at a brisk jog. It was a speed any Aiel could
maintain almost indefinitely. Her group, from Caem-lyn, had met up with Rhuarc as he was
traveling from Bandar Eban to meet with Rand al'Thor in the western part of the country.
Dobraine Taborwin, a Cairhienin, was still maintaining order in the capital city, where he'd
reportedly located a member of the Domani ruling body.
Perhaps the group of Aiel could have Traveled through a gateway the rest of the distance. But it
was not far—only a few days by foot—and they had left early enough to arrive at the appointed
time without using the One Power. Rhuarc wanted to scout for himself some of the landscape
near the manor house Rand al'Thor was using as a base. Other bodies of Goshien or Taardad Aiel
would join them at the base, using gateways, if needed.
"What do you think of the Car'a'carn's demands of us here in Arad Doman, Aviendha?" Amys
asked as they ran.
Aviendha stifled a frown. What of her punishment? "It is an irregular
88
THE GATHERING STORM
request," she said, "but Rand al'Thor has many strange ideas, even for a wetlander. This will not be the
most unusual duty he has set for us."
"And the fact that Rhuarc finds the duty discomforting?"
"I doubt that the clan chief is uncomfortable," Aviendha said. "I suspect that Rhuarc speaks what he has
heard others say, passing the information to the Wise Ones. He does not wish to shame others by
revealing who has spoken of their fears."
Amys nodded. What was the purpose of the questions? Surely the woman had guessed the same thing.
She would not come to Aviendha for counsel.
They ran in silence for a time, with no mention of punishments. Had the Wise Ones forgiven her
unknown slight? Surely they wouldn't dishonor her in that way. Aviendha had to be given time to think
out what she had done, otherwise her shame would be unbearable. She might err again, this time worse.
Amys gave no clue as to her thoughts. The Wise One had been a Maiden once, like Aviendha. She was
hard, even for an Aiel. "And al'Thor himself?" Amys asked. "What do you think of him?"
"I love him," Aviendha said.
"I did not ask Aviendha the silly girl," Amys said curtly. "I asked Aviendha the Wise One."
"He is a man of many burdens," Aviendha said more carefully. "I fear that he makes many of those
burdens heavier than they need be. I once thought that there was only one way to be strong, but I have
learned from my first-sister that I was wrong. Rand al'Thor ... I do not think he has learned this yet. I
worry that he mistakes hardness for strength."
Amys nodded again, as if in approval. Were these questions a test of some sort?
"You would marry him?" Amys asked.
/ thought ive weren't talking about Aviendha the "silly girl," Aviendha thought, but of course didn't say it. One
did not say such things to Amys.
"I will marry him," she said instead. "It is not a possibility, but a certainty." The tone earned her a glance
from Amys, but Aviendha held her ground. Any Wise One who misspoke deserved to be corrected.
"And the wetlander Min Farshaw?" Amys asked. "She obviously loves him. What will you do about her?"
"She is my concern," Aviendha said. "We will reach an accommodation. I have spoken with Min
Farshaw, and I believe she will be easy to work with."
THE WAYS OF HONOR
89
"You would become first-sisters with her as well?" Amys asked, sounding just faintly amused.
"We will reach an accommodation, Wise One."
"And if you cannot?"
"We will," Aviendha said firmly.
"And how can you be so certain?"
Aviendha hesitated. Part of her wished to return only silence to that question, passing the leafless brush
thickets and giving Amys no answer. But she was just an apprentice, and while she could not be forced to
speak, she knew that Amys would keep pushing until the answer came out. Aviendha hoped she would
not incur too much toh by her response.
"You know of the woman Min's viewings?" Aviendha said.
Amys nodded.
"One of those viewings relates to Rand al'Thor and the three women he will love. Another relates to my
children by the Car'a'cam."
She said no more, and Amys pressed no more. It was enough. Both knew that one would sooner find a
Stone Dog who would retreat than find a viewing of Min's that went wrong.
On one hand, it was good to know that Rand al'Thor would be hers, although she would have to share
him. She did not begrudge Elayne, of course, but Min . . . well, Aviendha did not really know her.
Regardless, the viewing was a comfort. But it was also bothersome. Aviendha loved Rand al'Thor
because she chose to, not because she was destined to. Of course, Min's viewing didn't guarantee that
Aviendha would actually be able to marry Rand, so perhaps she had misspoken to Amys. Yes, he would
love three women and three women would love him, but would Aviendha find a way to marry him?
No, the future was not certain, and for some reason that brought her comfort. Perhaps she should have
worried, but she did not. She would get her honor back, and then she would marry Rand al'Thor. Perhaps
he would die soon after, but perhaps an ambush would come and she would fall to an arrow this day.
Worrying solved nothing.
Toh, however, was another matter.
"I misspoke, Wise One," Aviendha said. "I implied that the viewing said I would marry Rand al'Thor.
That is not true. All three of us will love him, and while that implies marriage, I do not know for certain."
Amys nodded. There was no toh; Aviendha had corrected herself quickly enough. That was well. She
would not add more shame on top of what she had already earned.
90
THE GATHERING STORM
"Very well, then," Amys said, watching the path ahead of her. "Let us discuss today's punishment."
Aviendha relaxed slightly. So she still had time to discover what she had done wrong. Wetlanders often
seemed confused by Aiel ways with punishment, but wetlanders had little understanding of honor. Honor
didn't come from being punished, but accepting a punishment and bearing it restored honor. That was the
soul of toh—the willing lowering of oneself in order to recover that which had been lost. It was strange to
her that wetlanders couldn't see this; indeed, it was strange that they didn't follow ji'e'toh instinctively.
What was life without honor?
Amys, rightly, wouldn't tell Aviendha what she had done wrong. However, she was having no success
thinking through the answer on her own, and it would cause less shame if she discovered the answer
through conversation. "Yes," Aviendha said carefully. "I should be punished. My time in Caemlyn
threatened to make me weak."
Amys sniffed. "You are no more weak than you were when you carried the spears, girl. A fair bit
stronger, I should think. Your time with your first-sister was important for you."
So that wasn't it. When Dorindha and Nadere had come for her, they had said she needed to continue her
training as an apprentice. Yet in the time since the Aiel had departed for Arad Doman, Aviendha had been
given no lessons. She had been assigned to carry water, to mend shawls, and to serve tea. She had been
given all manner of punishments with little explanation of what she had done wrong. And when she did
something obvious—like going scouting when she shouldn't have—the severity of her punishment was
always greater than the infraction should have merited.
It was almost as if the punishment was the thing the Wise Ones wanted her to learn, but that could not be.
She was not some wetlander who needed to be taught the ways of honor. What good would constant and
unexplained punishment do, other than to warn of some grave mistake she had made?
Amys reached to her side, untying something hanging at her waist. The woolen bag she held up was about
the size of a fist. "We have decided," she said, "that we have been too lax in our instruction. Time is
precious and we have no room left for delicacy."
Aviendha covered her surprise. Their previous punishments were delicate?
"Therefore," Amys said, handing over the small sack, "you will take
THE WAYS OF HONOR
91
this. Inside are seeds. Some are black, others are brown, others are white. This evening, before we sleep,
you will separate the colors, then count how many there are of each one. If you are wrong, we will mix
them together and you will start again."
Aviendha found herself gaping, and she nearly stumbled to a stop. Hauling water was necessary work.
Mending clothing was necessary work. Cooking meals was important work, particularly when no
gai'sbain had been brought with the small advance group.
But this . . . this was useless work! It was not only unimportant, it was frivolous. It was the kind of
punishment reserved for only the most stubborn, or most shameful, of people. It almost . . . almost felt as
though the Wise Ones were calling her da'tsang\
"By Sightblinder's eyes," she whispered as she forced herself to keep running. "What did I do?"
Amys glanced at her, and Aviendha looked away. Both knew that she didn't want an answer to that
question. She took the bag silently. It was the most humiliating punishment she had ever been given.
Amys moved off to run with the other Wise Ones. Aviendha shook off her stupor, her determination
returning. Her mistake must have been more profound than she had thought. Amys punishment was an
indication of that, a hint.
She opened the bag and glanced inside. There were three little empty algode bags inside to help with the
separation, and thousands of tiny seeds nearly engulfed them. This punishment was meant to be seen,
meant to bring her shame. Whatever she'd done, it was offensive not just to the Wise Ones, but to all
around her, even if they—like Aviendha herself— were ignorant of it.
That only meant she had to be more determined.
CHAPTER
4
Nightfall
Gawyn watched the sun burn the clouds to death in the west, the final light fading. That haze of perpetual
gloom kept the sun itself shrouded. Just as it hid the stars from his sight at night. Today the clouds were
unnaturally high in the air. Often, Dragonmount's tip would be hidden on cloudy days, but this thick, gray
haze hovered high enough that most of the time, it barely brushed the mountain's jagged, broken tip.
"Let's engage them," Jisao whispered from where he crouched beside Gawyn on the hilltop.
Gawyn glanced away from the sunset, back toward the small village below. It should have been still, save
perhaps for a goodman checking on his livestock one last time before turning in. It should have been dim,
unlit save for a few tallow candles burning in windows as people finished evening meals.
But it was not dim. It was not quiet. The village was alight with angry torches carried by a dozen sturdy
figures. By that torchlight and the light of the dying sun, Gawyn could make out that each was wearing a
nondescript uniform of brown and black. Gawyn couldn't see the three-starred insignia on their uniforms,
but he knew it was there.
From his distant vantage, Gawyn watched a few latecomers stumble from their homes, looking frightened
and worried as they gathered with
92
NIGHTFALL
93
the others in the crowded square. These villagers welcomed the armed force with reluctance. Women
clutched children, men were careful to keep their eyes downcast. "We don't want trouble," the postures
said. They'd undoubtedly heard from other villages that these invaders were orderly. The soldiers paid for
goods they took, and no young men were pressed into service—though they weren't turned away either. A
very odd invading army indeed. However, Gawyn knew what the people would think. This army was led
by Aes Sedai, and who could say what was odd or normal when Aes Sedai were involved?
There were no sisters with this particular patrol, thank the Light. The soldiers polite, but stern, lined up
the villagers and looked them over. Then a pair of soldiers entered each house and barn, inspecting it.
Nothing was taken and nothing was broken. All very neat and cordial. Gawyn could almost hear the
officer offering apologies to the village mayor.
"Gawyn?" Jisao asked. "I count barely a dozen of them. If we send Rodic's squad to come in from the
north, we'll cut off both sides and smash them between us. It's getting dark enough that they won't see us
coming. We could take them without so much as running up a lather."
"And the villagers?" Gawyn asked. "There are children down there."
"That hasn't stopped us other times."
"Those times were different," Gawyn said, shaking his head. "The last three villages they've searched
point a direct line toward Dorian. If this group vanishes, the next one will wonder what it was they nearly
uncovered. We'd draw the entire army's eye in this direction."
"But—"
"No," Gawyn said softly. "We have to know when to fall back, Jisao."
"So we came all this way for nothing."
"We came all this way for an opportunity," Gawyn said, backing away from the hilltop, making certain he
didn't show a profile on the horizon. "And now that I've inspected that opportunity, we're not going to
take it. Only a fool looses his arrow just because he's got a bird in front of him."
"Why wouldn't you loose it if it's right there in front of you?" Jisao asked as he joined Gawyn.
"Because sometimes the prize isn't worth the arrow," Gawyn said. "Come on."
Below, waiting in the dark with lanterns hooded, were some of the very men the soldiers in the village
were searching for. Gareth Bryne must have been very displeased to learn there was a harrying force
hiding somewhere nearby. He'd been diligent in trying to flush it out, but the
94
THE GATHERING STORM
countryside near Tar Valon was liberally sprinkled with villages, forests and secluded valleys that could
hide a small, mobile strike force. So far, Gawyn had managed to keep his Younglings out of sight while
pulling off the occasional raid or ambush on Bryne's forces. There was only so much you could do with
three hundred men, however. Particularly when you faced one of the five Great Captains.
Am I destined to end up fighting against each and every man who has been a mentor to me? Gawyn took the
reins of his horse and gave a silent order to withdraw by raising his right hand, then gestured sharply
away from the village. The men moved without comment, dismounting and leading their mounts for both
stealth and safety.
Gawyn had thought he was over Hammar and Coulin's deaths; Bryne himself had taught Gawyn that the
battlefield sometimes made allies into sudden foes. Gawyn had fought his former teachers, and Gawyn
had won. That was the end of it.
Recently, however, his mind seemed determined to dredge up those corpses and carry them about. Why
now, after so long?
He suspected his sense of guilt had to do with facing Bryne, his first and most influential instructor in the
arts of war. Gawyn shook his head as he guided Challenge across the darkening landscape; he kept his
men away from the road in case Bryne's scouts had placed watchers. The fifty men around Gawyn walked
as quietly as possible, the horses' hoofbeats deadened by the springy earth.
If Bryne had been shocked to discover a harrying force striking at his outriders, then Gawyn had been
equally shocked to discover those three stars on the uniforms of the men he slew. How had the White
Tower's enemies recruited the greatest military mind in all of Andor? And what was the Captain-General
of the Queen's Guard doing fighting with a group of Aes Sedai rebels in the first place? He should have
been in Caemlyn protecting Elayne.
Light send that Elayne had arrived in Andor. She couldn't still be with the rebels. Not with her homeland
lacking a queen. Her duty to Andor outweighed her duty to the White Tower.
And what of your duty, Gawyn Trakand? he thought to himself.
He wasn't certain he had duty, or honor, left to him. Perhaps his guilt about Hammar, his nightmares of
war and death at Dumai's Wells, were due to the slow realization that he might have given his allegiance
to the wrong side. His loyalty belonged to Elayne and Egwene. What, then, was he still doing fighting a
battle he didn't care about, helping a side
NIGHTFALL
95
that—by all accounts—was opposed to the one Elayne and Egwene had chosen?
They're just Accepted, he told himself. Elayne and Egwene didn't choose this side—they are just doing
what they've been ordered to do! But the things that Egwene had said to him all those months ago, back in
Cairhien, suggested that she had made her decision willingly.
She had chosen a side. Hammar had chosen a side. Gareth Bryne had, apparently, chosen a side. But
Gawyn continued to want to be on both sides. The division was ripping him apart.
An hour out of the village, Gawyn gave the order to mount and take to the road. Hopefully, Bryne's scouts
wouldn't think to search the land outside the village. If they did, the tracks of fifty horsemen would be
hard to miss. There was no avoiding that. The best thing now was to reach firm ground, where the signs
of their passing would be hidden by a thousand years of footfalls and traffic. Two pairs of soldiers rode
off in front and two pairs hung back to watch. The rest maintained their silence, though their horses now
pounded a thunderous gallop. None asked why they were withdrawing, but Gawyn knew that they were
wondering, just as Jisao had.
They were good men. Perhaps too good. As they rode, Rajar pulled his mount up beside Gawyn's. Just a
few months ago, Rajar had been a youth. But now Gawyn couldn't think of him as anything other than a
soldier. A veteran. Some men gained experience through years spent living. Other men gained experience
through months spent watching their friends die.
Glancing upward, Gawyn missed the stars. They hid their faces from him behind those clouds. Like Aiel
behind black veils. "Where did we go wrong, Rajar?" Gawyn asked as they rode.
"Wrong, Lord Gawyn?" Rajar asked. "I don't know that we did anything wrong. We couldn't have known
which villages that patrol would choose to inspect, or that they wouldn't turn along the old Wagonright
Road, as you had hoped. Some of the men may be confused, but it was right to withdraw."
"I wasn't talking about the raid,' Gawyn said, shaking his head. "I'm talking about this whole bloody
situation. You shouldn't have to go on supply raids or spend your time killing scouts; you should have
become a Warder to some freshly minted Aes Sedai by now." And I should be back in Caemlyn, with
Elayne.
"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills," the shorter man said.
"Well, it wove us into a hole," Gawyn muttered, glancing at the overcast sky once again. "And Elaida
doesn't seem too eager to pull us out of it."
96
THE GATHERING STORM
Rajar looked at Gawyn reproachfully. "The White Tower's methods are its own, Lord Gawyn, and so are
its motives. It isn't for us to question. What good is a Warder who questions the orders of his Aes Sedai?
A good way to get both of you killed, that is."
You're not a Warder, Rajar. That's the problem! Gawyn said nothing. None of the other Younglings
seemed to be plagued with these questions. To them, the world was much simpler. One did as the White
Tower, and the Amyrlin Seat, commanded. Never mind if those commands seemed designed to get you
killed.
Three hundred youths against a force of over fifty thousand hardened soldiers, commanded by Gareth
Bryne himself? Will of the Amyrlin or not, that was a deathtrap. The only reason the Younglings had
survived as long as they had was because of Gawyn's familiarity with his teacher's ways. He knew where
Bryne would send patrols and outriding scouts, and knew how to evade his search patterns.
It was still a futile effort. Gawyn didn't have nearly the troops needed for a true harrying force,
particularly with Bryne entrenched in his siege. Beyond that, there was the remarkable matter of the
army's complete lack of a supply line. How were they getting food? They purchased supplies from the
surrounding villages, but not nearly enough to feed themselves. How could they possibly have carried all
they needed while still moving quickly enough to appear, without warning, in the middle of winter?
Gawyn's attacks were next to meaningless. It was enough to make a man think that the Amyrlin just
wanted him, and the other Younglings, out of the way. Before Dumai's Wells, Gawyn had suspected that
was the case. Now he was growing certain. And yet you continue to follow her orders, he thought to
himself.
He shook his head. Bryne's scouts were getting dangerously close to his base of operations, and Gawyn
couldn't risk killing any more of them without giving himself away. It was time to head back to Dorian.
Perhaps the Aes Sedai there would have a suggestion on how to proceed.
He hunkered down on his horse and continued riding into the night. Light, I wish I could see the stars, he
thought.
CHAPTER
5
A Tale of Blood
Rand crossed the trampled manor green, banners flapping before him, tents surrounding him, horses
whinnying in their pickets on the far west side. In the air hung the scents of an efficient war camp: smoke
and savor from the stewpots were much stronger than the occasional whiff of horse dung or an unwashed
body.
Bashere's men maintained a tidy camp, busying themselves with the hundreds of little tasks that allowed
the army to function: sharpening swords, oiling leathers, mending saddles, fetching water from the
stream. Some practiced charges to the left, on the far side of the green, in the space between tent lines and
the scraggly trees growing alongside the stream. The men held gleaming lances at the level as their horses
trampled the muddy ground in a long swath. The maneuvers not only kept their skills sharp, but exercised
the horses as well.
As always, Rand was trailed by a flock of attendants. Maidens were his guards, and the Aiel watched the
Saldaean soldiers with wariness. Beside him were several Aes Sedai. They were always about him, now.
The Pattern had no place for his onetime insistence that all Aes Sedai be kept at arm's length. It wove as it
willed, and experience had shown that Rand needed these Aes Sedai. What he wanted no longer mattered.
He understood that now.
It was little comfort that many of these Aes Sedai in his camp had
97
98
THE GATHERING STORM
sworn allegiance to him. Everyone knew that Aes Sedai followed their oaths in their own ways, and they
would decide what their "fealty" to him would require.
Elza Penfell—who accompanied him this day—was one of those who had sworn to him. Of the Green
Ajah, she had a face that might be considered pretty, if one didn't recognize the ageless quality that
marked her as Aes Sedai. She was pleasant, for an Aes Sedai, despite the fact that she had helped kidnap
Rand and lock him in a box for days, to be pulled out only for the occasional beating.
In the back of his mind, Lews Therin growled.
That was past. Elza had sworn. That was enough to allow Rand to use her. The other woman attending
him today was less predictable; she was a member of Cadsuane's retinue. Corele Hovian—a slim Yellow
with blue eyes, wild dark hair, and a perpetual smile—had sworn no oaths to do as he said. Despite that,
he felt a temptation to trust her, since she had once tried to save his life. It was only because of her,
Samitsu and Damer Flinn that Rand had survived. One of two wounds in Rand's side that would not
heal—a gift from Padan Fain's cursed dagger—still lingered as a reminder of that day. The constant pain
of that festering evil overlaid the equal pain of an older wound beneath, the one Rand had taken while
fighting Ishamael so long ago.
Soon, one of those wounds—or perhaps both—would spill Rand's blood onto the rocks of Shayol Ghul.
He wasn't certain if they would be what killed him or not; with the number and variety of the different
factors competing to take Rand's life, even Mat wouldn't have known which one was the best bet.
As soon as Rand thought of Mat, the colors swirled in his vision, forming into the image of a wiry,
brown-eyed man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and tossing dice before a small crowd of watching soldiers.
Mat wore a grin and seemed to be showing off, which was not unusual, though there didn't seem to be any
coin changing hands for his throws.
The visions came whenever he thought of Mat or Perrin, and Rand had stopped dismissing them. He did
not know what caused the images to appear; probably his ta'veren nature interacting with the other two
ta'veren from his home village. Whatever it was, he used it. Just another tool. It appeared that Mat was
still with the Band, but was no longer camped in a forested land. It was hard to tell from the angle, but he
looked to be outside a city somewhere. At least, that was a large road in the near distance.
A TALE OF BLOOD
99
Rand had not seen the small, dark-skinned woman with Mat for some time. Who was she? Where had she
gone?
The vision faded. Hopefully, Mat would return to him soon. He would need Mat and his tactical skills at
Shayol Ghul.
One of Bashere's quartermasters—a thick-mustached man with bowlegs and a squat body—saw Rand and
approached with a quick step. Rand waved the Saldaean back; he had no mind for supply reports at the
moment. The quartermaster saluted immediately and retreated. Once, Rand might have been surprised at
how quickly he was obeyed, but no longer. It was right for the soldiers to obey. Rand was a king, though
he didn't wear the Crown of Swords at the moment.
Rand passed through the green, filled with tents and horse pickets now. He left the camp, passing the
unfinished earthen bulwark. Here, pine trees continued down the sides of the gentle slope. Tucked into a
stand of trees just to the right was the Traveling ground, a square section of ground roped off to provide a
safe location for gateways.
One hung in the air at that moment, an opening to another place. A small group of people was making
their way through, walking out onto the pinecone-strewn ground. Rand could see the weaves that made up
the gateway; this one had been crafted with saidin.
Most of the people in the group wore the colorful clothing of Sea Folk—the men bare-chested, even in the
chill spring air, the women in loose bright blouses. All wore loose trousers, and all had piercings in their
ears or noses, the complexity of the adornments an indication of each person's relative status.
As he waited for the Sea Folk, one of the soldiers who guarded the Traveling ground approached Rand
with a sealed letter. The letter would be one sent via Asha'man from one of Rand's interests in the east.
Indeed, as he opened it, he found it was from Darlin, the Tairen king. Rand had left him with orders to
gather an army and prepare it for marching into Arad Doman. That gathering had been completed for
some time now, and Darlin wondered—yet again—about his orders. Could no one simply do as they were
told?
"Send a messenger," Rand said to the soldier, impatiently tucking the letter away. "Tell Darlin to continue
recruiting. I want him to draft every Tairen who can hold a sword and either train him for combat or set
him to work in the forges. The Last Battle is close. Very close."
"Yes, my Lord Dragon," the soldier said, saluting.
ioo
THE GATHERING STORM
"Tell him that I will send an Asha'man when I want him to move," Rand said. "I still intend to use him in
Arad Doman, but I need to see what the Aiel have discovered first."
The soldier bowed and retreated. Rand turned back to the Sea Folk. One of them approached him.
"Coramoor," she said, nodding. Harine was a handsome woman in her middle years, with white streaking
her hair. Her Atha'an Miere blouse was of a bright blue, colorful enough to impress a Tinker, and she had
an impressive five gold rings in each ear as well as a nose chain strung with gold medallions.
"I did not expect you to come and meet us personally," Harine continued.
"I have questions for you that could not wait."
Harine looked taken aback. She was the Sea Folk ambassador to the Coramoor, which was their name for
Rand. They were angry with Rand for the weeks he had spent without a Sea Folk minder—he had
promised to keep one with him at all times—yet Logain had mentioned their hesitation to send Harine
back. Why was that? Had she achieved greater rank, making her too important to attend him? Could one
be too important to attend the Coramoor? Much about the Sea Folk made little sense to him.
"I will answer if I can," Harine said guardedly. Behind her, porters moved the rest of her belongings
through the gateway. Flinn stood on the other side, holding the portal open.
"Good," Rand said, pacing back and forth before her as he spoke. At times, he felt so tired—so weary to
his bones—that he knew he had to keep moving. Never stopping. If he did, his enemies would find him.
Either that, or his own exhaustion, both mental and physical, would drag him down.
"Tell me this," he demanded as he paced. "Where are the ships which have been promised? The Domani
people starve while grain rots in the east. Logain said you had agreed to my demands, but I have seen
nothing of your ships. It has been weeks!"
"Our ships are swift," Harine said testily, "but there is a great distance to travel—and we must go through
seas controlled by the Seanchan. The invaders have been extremely diligent with their patrols, and our
ships have had to turn back and flee on several occasions. Did you expect that we would be able bring
your food in an instant? Perhaps the convenience of these gateways has made you impatient, Coramoor.
We must deal with the realities of shipping and war even if you do not."
A TALE OF BLOOD
IOI
Her tone implied that he would have to deal with those realities in this case. "I expect results," Rand said,
shaking his head. "I expect no delays. I know you do not like being forced to keep your agreement, but I
will suffer no lagging to prove a point. People die because of your slowness."
Harine looked as if she'd been slapped. "Surely," she said, "the Coramoor does not imply that we would
not keep to our Bargain."
The Sea Folk were stubborn and prideful, Wavemistresses more than most. They were like an entire race
of Aes Sedai. He hesitated. I should not insult her so, not because I am frustrated about other things. "No," he
finally said. "No, I do not imply that. Tell me, Harine, were you punished much for your part in our
agreement?"
"I was hung up by my ankles naked and strapped until I could scream no more." As soon as the words left
her mouth, her eyes opened in shock. Often, when influenced by Rand's ta'veren nature, people said
things they did not intend to admit.
"So harsh?" Rand said, genuinely surprised.
"It was not so bad as it could have been. I retain my position as Wavemistress for my clan."
But it was obvious she had lost a great deal of face, or incurred great toh, or whatever the blasted Sea
Folk called honor. Even when he wasn't present, he caused pain and suffering!
"I am glad you have returned," he forced himself to say. No smile, but a softer tone. That was the best he
could do. "You have impressed me, Harine, with your levelheadedness."
She nodded in thanks to him. "We will keep our Bargain, Coramoor. You needn't fear."
Something else struck him, one of the original questions he'd come to ask her. "Harine. I would ask you a
somewhat delicate question about your people."
"You may ask," she said carefully.
"How do the Sea Folk treat men who can channel?"
She hesitated. "That is not a matter for the shorebound to know."
Rand met her eyes. "If you agree to answer, then I will answer a question for you in return." The best way
to deal with the Atha'an Miere was not to push or bully, but to offer trade.
She paused. "If you give me two questions," she said, "I will answer."
"I will give you one question, Harine," he said, raising a finger. "But I promise to answer you as truthfully
as I can. It is a fair bargain, and you know it. I have little patience right now."
102
THE GATHERING STORM
Harine touched her fingers to her lips. "It is agreed, then, under the Light."
"It is agreed," Rand said. "Under the Light. My question?"
"Men who can channel are given a choice," Harine said. "They can either step from the bow of their ship
holding a stone which is also tied to their legs, or they can be dropped off on a barren isle with no food or
water. The second is considered the more shameful option, but some few do take it, to live for a brief time
longer."
Not much different from what his own people did in gentling men, truth be told. "Saidin is cleansed now,"
he said to her. "This practice must stop."
She pursed her lips, regarding him. "Your . . . man spoke of this, Coramoor. Some find it difficult to
accept."
"It is true," he said firmly.
"I do not doubt that you believe it to be so."
Rand gritted his teeth, forcing down another burst of anger, his hand forming a fist. He had cleansed the
taint! He, Rand al'Thor, had performed a deed the likes of which had not been seen since the Age of
Legends. And how was it treated? With suspicion and doubt. Most assumed that he was going mad, and
therefore seeing a "cleansing" that had not really happened.
Men who could channel were always distrusted. Yet they were the only ones who could confirm what
Rand said! He'd imagined joy and wonder at the victory, but he should have known better. Though male
Aes Sedai had once been as respected as their female counterparts, that had been long ago. The days of
Jorlen Corbesan had been lost in time. All people could remember now was the Breaking and the
Madness.
They hated male channelers. Yet, in following Rand, they served one. Did they not see the contradiction?
How could he convince them that there was no longer reason to murder men who could touch the One
Power? He needed them! Why, there might be another Jorlen Corbesan among the very men the Sea Folk
tossed into the ocean!
He froze. Jorlen Corbesan had been one of the most talented Aes Sedai before the Breaking, a man who
had crafted some of the most amazing ter'angreal Rand had ever seen. Except Rand had not seen them.
Those were Lews Therin's memories, not his. Jorlen s research facility of Sharom had been
destroyed—the man himself killed—by the backlash of Power from the Bore.
A TALE OF BLOOD
103
Oh, Light, Rand thought with despair. I'm losing myself. Losing myself in him.
The most terrifying part was that Rand could no longer make himself wish to banish Lews Therin. Lews
Therin had known a way to seal the Bore, if imperfectly, but Rand had no idea how to approach the task.
The safety of the world might depend on the memories of a dead madman.
Many of the people around Rand appeared shocked, and Harine's eyes were both uncomfortable and a
little frightened. Rand had been muttering to himself again, he realized, and he cut off abruptly.
"I accept your answer," he said stiffly. "What is your question of me?"
"I will ask it later," she said. "Once I have had a chance to consider."
"As you wish." He turned away, his retinue of Aes Sedai, Maidens and attendants following. "The
Traveling ground guards will see you to your room and carry your luggage." There was a veritable
mountain of that. "Flinn, to me!"
The elderly Asha'man jumped through the gateway, motioning for the last of the porters to trot back to the
docks on the other side. He let the portal twist back into a slash of light and vanish, then hurried after
Rand. He spared a glance and a smile for Corele, who had bonded him as her Warder.
"I apologize for taking so long to return, Lord Dragon." Flinn had a leathery face and only a few wisps of
hair on his head. He looked a lot like some of the farmers Rand had known back in Emond's Field, though
he had been a soldier for most of his life. Flinn had come to Rand because he wanted to learn Healing.
Rand had turned him into a weapon instead.
"You did as ordered," Rand said, walking back toward the green. He wanted to blame Harine for the
prejudices of an entire world, but that was not fair. He needed a better way, a way to make everyone see.
"I've never been exceptional at making gateways," Flinn continued. "Not like Androl. I needed to—"
"Flinn," Rand said, cutting in. "Enough."
The Asha'man blushed. "I apologize, my Lord Dragon."
To the side, Corele laughed softly, patting Flinn on the shoulder. "Don't mind him, Darner,' she said in a
lilting Murandian accent. "He's been as surly as a winter thunderhead all morning."
Rand glared at her, but she just smiled good-naturedly. Regardless of what the Aes Sedai thought of men
who could channel in general, the ones who had taken Asha'man as Warders seemed as protective of them
ic>4
THE GATHERING STORM
as mothers of their children. She had bonded one of his men, but that did not change the fact that Flinn was one of
his men. An Asha'man first and foremost, a Warder second.
"What do you think, Elza?" Rand said, turning from Corele to the other Aes Sedai. "About the taint and what Harine
said?"
The round-faced woman hesitated. She walked with hands behind her back, dark green dress marked only by subtle
embroideries. Utilitarian, for an Aes Sedai. "If my Lord Dragon says that the taint has been cleansed," the woman
said carefully, "then it is certainly improper to express doubt of him where others can hear."
Rand grimaced. An Aes Sedai answer for certain. Oath or no oath, Elza did as she wished.
"Oh, we were both there at Shadar Logoth," Corele said, rolling her eyes. "We saw what you did, Rand. Besides, I
can feel male power through dear Damer here when we link. It has changed. The taint is gone. Right as sunlight, it
is, though channeling the male half still feels like wrestling with a summer whirlwind."
"Yes," Elza said, "but be that as it is, you must realize how difficult it will be for others to believe this, Lord Dragon.
During the Time of Madness, it took decades for some people to accept that the male Aes Sedai were doomed to go
insane. It will likely take longer for them to overcome their distrust, now that it has been ingrained for so long."
Rand gritted his teeth. He had reached a small hill at the side of the camp, just beside the bulwark. He continued up
to the top, Aes Sedai following. Here, a short wooden platform had been erected—a fire tower for launching arrows
over the bulwark.
Rand stopped at the top of the hill, Maidens surrounding him. He barely noticed the soldiers who saluted him as he
looked over the Sal-daean camp with its neat tent lines.
Was this all he would leave to the world? A taint cleansed, yet men still killed or exiled for something they could not
help? He had bound most nations to him. Yet he knew well that the tighter one tied a bale, the sharper the snap of
the cords when they were cut. What would happen when he died? Wars and devastation to match the Breaking? He
hadn't been able to help that last time, for his madness and grief at Hyena's death had consumed him. Could he
prevent something similar this time? Did he have a choice?
He was ta'veren. The Pattern bent and shaped around him. And yet, he had quickly learned one thing from being a
king: the more authority you gained, the less control you had over your life. Duty was truly heav-
A TALE OF BLOOD
105
ier than a mountain; it forced his hand as often as the prophecies did. Or were they both one and the
same? Duty and prophecy? His nature as a ta'veren and his place in history? Could he change his life?
Could he leave the world better for his passing, rather than leaving the nations scarred, torn and bleeding?
He watched the camp, men moving about their tasks, horses nosing at the ground, searching for patches of
winter grass that had not already been chewed to their roots. Though Rand had ordered this army to travel
light, there were still camp followers. Women to help with meals and laundry, blacksmiths and farriers to
tend horses and equipment, young boys to run messages and to train on the weapons. Saldaea was a
Borderland, and battle was a way of life for its people.
"I envy them, sometimes," Rand whispered.
"My Lord?" Flinn asked, stepping up to him.
"The people of the camp," Rand said. "They do as they are told, working each day under orders. Strict
orders, at times. But orders or not, those people are more free than I."
"You, Lord?" Flinn said, rubbing his leathery face with an aged finger. "You are the most powerful man
alive! You're ta'veren. Even the Pattern obeys your will, 1 should think!"
Rand shook his head. "It doesn't work that way, Flinn. Those people out there, any one of them could just
ride away. Escape, if they felt like it. Leave the battle to others."
"I've known a few Saldaeans in my day, my Lord," Flinn said. "Forgive me, but I have doubts that any
one of them would do that."
"But they could" Rand said. "It's possible. For all their laws and oaths, they are free. Me, I seem as if I can
do as I wish, but I am tied so tightly the bonds cut my flesh. My power and influence are meaningless
against fate. My freedom is all just an illusion, Flinn. And so I envy them. Sometimes."
Flinn folded his hands behind his back, obviously uncertain how to respond.
We all do as we must, Moiraine's voice from the past returned to his memory. As the Pattern decrees. For
some there is less freedom than for others. It does not matter whether we choose or are chosen. What must be, must
be.
She had understood. I'm trying, Moiraine, he thought. I will do what must be done.
"My Lord Dragon!" a voice called. Rand turned toward the sound and saw one of Bashere's scouts
running up the hill. The Maidens cautiously allowed the youthful, dark-haired man to approach.
106
THE GATHERING STORM
"My Lord," the scout said, saluting. "There are Aiel on the outskirts of the camp. We saw two of them
prowling through the trees about half a mile down the slope."
The Maidens immediately began to move their hands, speaking in their clandestine handtalk.
"Did any of those Aiel wave at you, soldier?" Rand asked dryly.
"My Lord?" the man asked. "Why would they do that?"
"They're Aiel. If you saw them, that means they wanted you to—and that means they're allies, not foes.
Inform Bashere that we'll be meeting with Rhuarc and Bael shortly. It is time to secure Arad Doman."
Or maybe it was time to destroy it. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell the difference.
Merise spoke. "Graendal's plans. Tell me again what you know of them." The tall Aes Sedai—of the
Green Ajah, like Cadsuane herself—maintained a stern expression, arms folded beneath her breasts, a
silver comb slid into the side of her black hair.
The Taraboner woman was a good choice to lead the interrogation. Or, at least, she was the best choice
Cadsuane had. Merise didn't show a bit of discomfort at being so near to one of the most feared beings in
all of creation, and she was relentless in her questioning. She did try a little too hard to prove how stern
she was. The way she kept her hair pulled back into its bun with such force, for instance, or the way she
flaunted her Asha'man Warder.
The room was on the second floor of Rand al'Thor's Domani mansion, the outer wall made of thick round
pine logs, the inner walls of wood planks, all stained a matching dark color. This chamber, which had
once been a bedroom, had been emptied of nearly all furniture; there was not even a rug on the sanded
wood floor. In fact, the only furniture in it now was the stout chair Cadsuane sat in.
Cadsuane sipped her tea, intentionally projecting an air of composure. That was important, especially if
one wasn't anything near composed on the inside. At the moment, for instance, Cadsuane wanted to crush
the teacup between her hands, then perhaps spend an hour or so stamping on the shards.
She took another sip.
The source of her frustration—and the object of Merise's questioning—
A TALE OF BLOOD
107
hung in the air, held upside down by weaves of Air with her arms tied behind her back. The captive had
short wavy hair and dark skin. Her face matched Cadsuane's own for composed serenity, despite her
circumstances. Wearing a simple brown dress—the hem held up around her legs by a weave of Air to
keep it from obscuring her face—held bound and shielded, the prisoner somehow seemed the one in
control.
Merise stood in front of the prisoner. Narishma leaned against the wall, the only other one in the room.
Cadsuane did not control the questioning herself, not yet. Letting another lead the interrogation worked to
her advantage; it let her think and plan. Outside the room, Erian, Sarene, and Nesune held the prisoner's
shield, two more than were normally considered necessary.
One did not take chances with the Forsaken.
Their prisoner was Semirhage. A monster who many thought was simply a legend. Cadsuane did not
know how many of the stories about the woman were true. She did know that Semirhage was not easily
intimidated, unsettled or manipulated. And that was a problem.
"Well?" Merise demanded. "My question: you have an answer?"
Semirhage regarded Merise, icy contempt in her voice as she spoke. "Do you know what happens to a
man when his blood is replaced with something else?"
"I did not—"
"He dies, of course," Semirhage said, cutting Merise off with words like knives. "The death often happens
instantly, and quick deaths are of little interest. With experiment, I discovered that some solutions can
replace blood more effectively, allowing the subject to live for a short time after the transfusion."
She fell silent.
"Answer the question," Merise said, "or out the window you will hang again and—"
"The transfusion itself requires use of the Power, of course," Semirhage interrupted again. "Other
methods are not quick enough. I invented the weave myself. It can suddenly and instantly pull the blood
from a body and deposit it in a bin, while at the same time taking a solution and pressing it into the
veins."
Merise gritted her teeth, glancing at Narishma. The Asha'man wore a coat and trousers of black, as usual,
his long dark hair in braids woven with bells on the ends. He lounged against the log wall. He had a
boyish face,
108
THE GATHERING STORM
but displayed a growing edge of danger. Perhaps that came from training with Merise's other Warders.
Perhaps it came from associating with people who would put one of the Forsaken to the question.
"My warning—" Merise began again.
"I had one subject survive an entire hour after the transfusion," Semi-rhage said in a calm, conversational
tone. "I count it as one of my greatest victories. He was in pain the entire time, of course. True pain,
agony that he could feel in every vein of his body, right down to the near-invisible ones in his fingers. I
know of no other way to bring such suffering to every part of the body at once."
She met Merise's eyes. "I will show you the weave someday."
Merise paled just slightly.
With a whip of her hand, Cadsuane wove a shield of Air around Semi-rhage's head to block her from
hearing, then wove Fire and Air into two small balls of light, which she placed directly in front of the
Forsaken's eyes. The lights weren't bright enough to blind or damage her eyes, but they would keep her
from seeing. That was a particular trick of Cadsuane's; too many sisters would think to deafen a captive,
yet leave them capable of watching. One never knew who had learned to read lips, and Cadsuane had
little inclination to underestimate her current captive.
Merise glanced at Cadsuane, a flash of annoyance in her eyes.
"You were losing control of her," Cadsuane said firmly, setting her tea on the floor beside her chair.
Merise hesitated, then nodded, looking truly angry. Likely at herself. "This woman, nothing works on
her," she said. "She never changes the tone of her voice, no matter what we do to her. Every punishment I
can think of only creates more threats. Each one more gruesome than the last! Light!" She gritted her
teeth again, refolding her arms and breathing deeply through her nose. Narishma straightened as if to walk
over to her, but she waved him back. Merise was appropriately firm with her Warders, though she did
snap at anyone else who tried to keep them in their places.
"We can break her," Cadsuane said.
"Can we, Cadsuane?"
"Phaw! Of course we can. She is human, just like anyone else."
"True," Merise said. "Though she's lived for three thousand years. Three thousand, Cadsuane."
"She spent the bulk of that time imprisoned," Cadsuane said with a dismissive sniff. "Centuries locked up
in the Dark One's prison, likely in a
A TALE OF BLOOD
109
trance or hibernation. Subtract those years, and she'd no older than any of us. A fair sight younger than
some, I would imagine."
It was a subtle reminder of her own age, something rarely discussed among Aes Sedai. The entire
conversation about age was, in fact, a sign of how uncomfortable the Forsaken made Merise. Aes Sedai
were practiced at appearing calm, but there was a reason that Cadsuane had kept those holding the shield
outside the room. They gave away too much. Even the normally unflappable Merise lost control far too
often during these interrogations.
Of course, Merise and the others—like all the women in the Tower these days—still fell short of what an
Aes Sedai should be. These younger Aes Sedai had been allowed to grow soft and weak, prone to
bickering. Some had allowed themselves to be bullied into swearing fealty to Rand al'Thor. Sometimes,
Cadsuane wished she could simply send them all to penance for a few decades.
Or maybe that was just Cadsuane's age speaking. She was old, and that was making her increasingly
intolerant of foolishness. Over two centuries ago, she'd sworn to herself that she'd live to attend the Last
Battle, no matter how long that took. Using the One Power lengthened one's years, and she'd found that
determination and grit could stretch those years even further. She was one of the oldest people alive.
Unfortunately, her years had taught her that no measure of planning or determination could make life turn
out as you wanted. That didn't stop her from being annoyed when it didn't. One might have thought that
the years would also have taught her patience, but it had done the opposite. The older she grew, the less
inclined she was to wait, for she knew she didn't have many years left.
Anyone who claimed that old age had brought them patience was either lying or senile.
"She can and will be broken," Cadsuane repeated, "I am not going to allow a person who knows weaves
from the Age of Legends to simply dance herself to execution. We are going to pull every scrap of
knowledge from that woman's brain, if we have to turn a few of her own 'creative' weaves on her."
"The a'dam. If only the Lord Dragon would let us use it on her . . ." Merise said, glancing at Semirhage.
If ever Cadsuane had been tempted to break her word, it was regarding that. Slip an a'dam on the woman .
. . but no, in order to force someone to
no
THE GATHERING STORM
talk with an a'dam, you had to give them pain. It was the same as torture, and al'Thor had forbidden it.
Semirhage had closed her eyes against Cadsuane's lights, but she was still composed, controlled. "What
was going on in that woman's mind? Did she wait for rescue? Did she think to force them to execute her
so that she could avoid true torture? Did she really assume that she'd be able to escape, then wreak
vengeance on the Aes Sedai who had questioned her?
Likely the last—and it was hard not to feel at least a hint of apprehension. The woman knew things about
the One Power that hadn't survived even in legends. Three thousand years was a long, long time. Could
Semirhage break through a shield in a way that was unknown? If she could, why hadn't she already?
Cadsuane wouldn't be entirely comfortable until she was able to get her hands on some of that forkroot
tea.
"Your weaves, you can release them, Cadsuane," Merise said, standing. "I have composed myself. I fear
we will have to hang her out the window for a time, as I said. Perhaps we can threaten her with pain. She
can't know of al'Thor's foolish requirements."
Cadsuane leaned forward, releasing the weaves that hung the lights before the Forsaken's eyes, but not
removing the shield of Air that kept her from hearing. Semirhage's eyes snapped open, then quickly found
Cadsuane. Yes, she knew who was in charge. The two locked eyes.
Merise continued to question, asking about Graendal. Al'Thor thought the other Forsaken might be
somewhere in Arad Doman. Cadsuane was far more interested in other questions, but Graendal made an
acceptable starting point.
Semirhage responded to Merise's questions with silence this time, and Cadsuane found herself thinking
about al'Thor. The boy had resisted her teaching as stubbornly as Semirhage resisted questioning. Oh,
true, he had learned some minor things—how to treat her with a measure of respect, how to at least feign
civility. But nothing more.
Cadsuane hated admitting failure. And this was not a failure, not yet, but she was close. That boy was
destined to destroy the world. And maybe save it, too. The first was inevitable; the second conditional.
She could wish the two were reversed, but wishes were about as useful as coins carved from wood. You
could paint them however you wanted, but they remained wood.
She gritted her teeth, putting the boy out of her mind. She needed to watch Semirhage. Each time the
woman spoke, it could be a clue. Semirhage returned her stare, ignoring Merise.
A
TALE OF BLOOD
HI
How did you break one of the most powerful women who had ever lived? A woman who had perpetrated
countless atrocities during the days of wonder before, even, the Dark One's release? Meeting those black,
onyx eyes, Cadsuane realized something. AlThor's prohibition on hurting Semirhage was meaningless.
They could not break this woman with pain. Semirhage was the great torturer of the Forsaken, a woman
intrigued by death and agony.
. No, she would not break that way, even if the means had been allowed them. With a chill, looking into
those eyes, Cadsuane thought she saw something of herself in the creature. Age, craftiness and
unwillingness to budge.
That, then, left a question for her. If given the task, how would Cadsuane go about breaking herself?
The concept was so disturbing that she was relieved when Corele interrupted the interrogation a few
moments later. The slender, cheerful Murandian was loyal to Cadsuane and had been on duty watching
over al'Thor this afternoon. Corele's word that al'Thor would be meeting soon with his Aiel chiefs brought
an end to the interrogation, and the three sisters maintaining the shield entered and towed Semirhage off
to the room where they would set her bound and gagged with flows of Air.
Cadsuane watched the Forsaken go, carried on weaves of Air, then shook her head. Semirhage had been
only the day's opening scene. It was time to deal with the boy.
CHAPTER 6
When Iron Melts
Rodel Ituralde had seen a lot of battlefields. Some things were always the same. Dead men like piles of
rags, lying in heaps. Ravens eager to dine. Groans, cries, whimpers and mumbles from those unlucky
enough to need a long time to die.
Each battlefield also had its own individual print. You could read a battle like the trail of passing game.
Corpses lying in rows that were disturbingly straight indicated a charge of footmen who had been pressed
against volleys of arrows. Scattered and trampled bodies were the result of infantry breaking before heavy
cavalry. This battle had seen large numbers of Seanchan crushed up against the walls of Darluna, where
they had fought with desperation. Hammered against the stone. One section of wall was completely torn
away where some damane had tried to escape into the city. Fighting in streets and among homes would
have favored the Seanchan. They hadn't made it in time.
Ituralde rode his roan gelding through the mess. Battle was always a mess. The only neat battles were the
ones in stories or history books. Those had been cleansed and scoured by the abrasive hands of scholars
looking for conciseness. "Aggressor won, fifty-three thousand killed" or "Defender stood, twenty
thousand fallen."
What would be written of this battle? It would depend on who was writing. They would neglect to include
the blood, pounded into the earth
112
WHEN IRON MELTS
113
to make mud. The bodies, broken, pierced and mangled. The ground torn in swaths by enraged damane.
Perhaps they would remember the numbers; those often seemed important to scribes. Half of Ituralde's
hundred thousand, dead. On any other battlefield, fifty thousand casualties would have shamed and
angered him. But he'd faced down a force three times his size, and one with damane at that.
He followed the young messenger who had fetched him, a boy of perhaps twelve, wearing a Seanchan
uniform of red and green. They passed a fallen standard, hanging from a broken pole with the tip driven
into mud. It bore the sign of a sun being crossed by six gulls. Ituralde hated not knowing the houses and
names of the men he was fighting, but there was no way to tell with the foreign Seanchan.
The shadows cast by a dying evening sun striped the field. Soon a blanket of darkness would cradle the
bodies, and the survivors could pretend for a time that the grassland was a grave for their friends. And for
the people their friends had killed. He rounded a small hillock, coming to a scattered pattern of fallen
Seanchan elite. Most of these dead wore those insectlike helms. Bent, cracked, or dented. Dead eyes
stared blankly from openings behind twisted mandibles.
The Seanchan general was alive, if just barely. His helmet was off, and there was blood on his lips. He
leaned against a large, moss-covered boulder, back supported by a bundled cloak, as if he were waiting
for a meal to be delivered. Of course, that image was marred by his twisted leg and the broken haft of a
spear punching through the front of his stomach.
Ituralde dismounted. Like most of his men, Ituralde wore worker's clothing—simple brown trousers and
coat, borrowed off of the man who had taken Ituralde's uniform as part of the trap.
It felt odd to be out of uniform. A man like this General Turan did not deserve a soldier in drab. Ituralde
waved the messenger boy to stand back, out of earshot, then approached the Seanchan alone.
"You're him, then," Turan said, looking up at Ituralde, speaking with that slow Seanchan drawl. He was a
stout man, far from tall, with a peaked nose. His close-cropped black hair was shaved two finger widths
up each side of his head, and his helm lay beside him on the ground, bearing three white plumes. He
reached up with an unsteady black-gloved hand and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.
"I am," Ituralde said.
"They call you a 'Great Captain' in Tarabon."
"They do."
ii4
THE GATHERING STORM
"It's deserved," Turan said, coughing. "How did you do it? Our scouts. . . ." His cough consumed him.
"Raken," Ituralde said once the cough subsided. He squatted down beside his foe. The sun was still a
sliver in the west, lighting the battlefield with a glimmer of golden red light. "Your scouts see from the
air, and truth is easy to hide from a distance."
"The army behind us?"
"Women and youths, mostly," Ituralde said. "A fair number of farmers as well. Wearing uniforms taken
from my troops here."
"And if we'd turned and attacked?"
"You wouldn't have. Your raken told you that you were outnumbered. Better to chase after the smaller
force ahead of you. Better than that to head for the city your scouts say is barely defended, even if it
means marching your men near to exhaustion."
Turan coughed again, nodding. "Yes. Yes, but the city was empty. How did you get troops into it?"
"Scouts in the air," Ituralde said, "can't see inside buildings."
"You ordered your troops to hide inside for that long?"
"Yes," Ituralde said. "With a rotation allowing a small number out each day to work the fields."
Turan shook his head in disbelief. "You realize what you have done," he said. There was no threat in his
voice. In fact, there was a fair amount of admiration. "High Lady Suroth will never accept this failure.
She will have to break you now, if only to save face."
"I know," Ituralde said, standing. "But I can't drive you back by attacking you in your fortresses. I need
you to come to me."
"You don't understand the numbers we have ..." Turan said. "What you destroyed today is but a breeze
compared to the storm you've raised. Enough of my people escaped today to tell of your tricks. They will
not work again."
He was right. The Seanchan learned quickly. Ituralde had been forced to cut short his raids in Tarabon
because of the swift Seanchan reaction.
"You know you can't beat us," Turan said softly. "I see it in your eyes, Great Captain."
Ituralde nodded.
"Why, then?" Turan asked.
"Why does a crow fly?" Ituralde asked.
Turan coughed weakly.
Ituralde did know that he could not win his war against the SeanWHEN IRON MELTS
115
chan. Oddly, each of his victories made him more certain of his eventual failure. The Seanchan were
smart, well equipped and well disciplined. More than that, they were persistent.
Turan himself must have known from the moment those gates opened that he was doomed. But he had not
surrendered; he had fought until his army broke, scattering in too many directions for Ituralde's exhausted
troops to catch. Turan understood. Sometimes, surrender wasn't worth the cost. No man welcomed death,
but there were far worse ends for a soldier. Abandoning one's homeland to invaders . . . well, Ituralde
couldn't do that. Not even if the fight was impossible to win.
He did what needed to be done, when it needed to be done. And right now, Arad Doman needed to fight.
They would lose, but their children would always know that their fathers had resisted. That resistance
would be important in a hundred years, when a rebellion came. If one came.
Ituralde stood up, intending to return to his waiting soldiers.
Turan struggled, reaching for his sword. Ituralde hesitated, turning back.
"Will you do it?" Turan asked.
Ituralde nodded, unsheathing his own sword.
"It has been an honor,' Turan said, then closed his eyes. Ituralde's sword—heron-marked—took the man's
head a moment later. Turan's own blade bore a heron, barely visible on the gleaming length of blade the
Seanchan had managed to pull. It was a pity that the two of them hadn't been able to cross
swords—though, in a way, these past few weeks had been just that, on a different scale.
Ituralde cleaned his sword, then slid it back into its sheath. In a final gesture, he slid Turan's sword out
and rammed it into the ground beside the fallen general. Ituralde then remounted and, nodding farewell to
the messenger, made his way back across the shadowed field of corpses.
The ravens had begun.
"I've tried encouraging several of the serving men and palace guards," Leane said softly, sitting beside the
bars of her cell. "But it's hard." She smiled, glancing at Egwene, who sat on a stool outside the cell. "I
don't exactly feel alluring these days."
Egwene's responding smile was wry, and she seemed to understand. Leane wore the same dress that she'd
been captured in, and it had not yet been laundered. Every third morning, she removed it and used the
116
THE GATHERING STORM
morning's bucket of water—after washing herself clean with a damp rag—to clean the dress in her basin.
But there was only so much one could do without soap. She'd braided her hair to give it a semblance of
neatness, but could do nothing about her ragged nails.
Leane sighed, thinking of those mornings spent standing in the corner of her cell, hidden from sight,
wearing nothing while she waited for the dress and shift to dry. Just because she was Domani didn't mean
she liked parading about without a scrap on. Proper seduction required skill and subtlety; nudity used
neither.
Her cell wasn't bad as cells went—she had a small bed, meals, plenty of water, a chamber pot that was
changed daily. But she was never allowed out, and was always guarded by two sisters who kept her
shielded. The only one who visited her—save for those trying to pry information from her regarding
Traveling—was Egwene.
The Amyrlin sat on her stool, expression thoughtful. And she was Amyrlin. It was impossible to think of
her any other way. How could a child so young have learned so quickly? That straight back, that poised
expression. Being in control wasn't so much about the power you had, but the power you implied that you
had. It was much like dealing with men, actually.
"Have you . . . heard anything?" Leane asked. "About what they plan to do with me?"
Egwene shook her head. Two Yellow sisters sat chatting nearby on the bench, lit by a lamp on the table
beside them. Leane hadn't answered any of the questions her captors put to her, and Tower law was very
strict about the questioning of fellow sisters. They couldn't harm her, particularly not with the Power. But
they could just leave her alone, to rot.
"Thank you for coming to see me these evenings," Leane said, reaching through the lattice of bars to take
Egwene's hand. "I believe I owe my sanity to you."
"It is my pleasure," Egwene said, though her eyes showed a hint of the exhaustion she undoubtedly felt.
Some of the sisters who visited Leane mentioned the beatings Egwene was suffering as "penances" for
her insubordination. Odd, how a novice to be instructed could be beaten but a prisoner to be interrogated
could not. And despite the pain, Egwene came to visit Leane in the cell virtually every night.
"I will see you free, Leane," Egwene promised, still holding her hand. "Elaida's tyranny cannot last. I'm
confident it won't be long now."
WHEN IRON MELTS
117
Leane nodded, letting go and standing up. Egwene took hold of the bars and pulled herself to her feet,
cringing ever so slightly at the motion. She nodded farewell to Leane, then hesitated, frowning.
"What is it?" Leane asked
Egwene took her hands off of the bars and looked at her palms. They seemed to be coated with a
reflective, waxy substance. Frowning, Leane looked at the bars, and was shocked to see Egwene's
handprints on the iron.
"What in the Light—" Leane said, poking at one of the bars. It bent beneath her finger like warm wax on
the lip of a candle's bowl.
Suddenly, the stones beneath Leane's feet shifted, and she felt herself sinking. She cried out. Globs of
melted wax starting to rain down from the ceiling, splattering across her face. They weren't warm, but
they were somehow liquid. They had the color of stone!
She gasped, panicked, stumbling and sliding as her feet sank deeper in the too-slick floor. A hand caught
hers; she looked up to where Egwene had grabbed her. The bars melted out of the way as Leane watched,
the iron drooping to the sides, then liquefying.
"Help!" Egwene screamed at the Yellows outside. "Burn you! Stop staring!"
Leane scrambled for purchase, terrified, trying to pull herself along the bars toward Egwene. She grasped
only wax. A lump of bar came loose in her hand, squishing between her fingers, and the floor warped
around her, sucking her down.
And then threads of Air seized her, yanking her free. The room lurched as she was tossed forward into
Egwene, knocking the younger woman backward. The two Yellows—white-haired Musarin and short
Gelarna— had jumped to their feet, and the glow of saidar surrounded them. Musarin called for help,
watching the melting cell with wide eyes.
Leane righted herself, scrambling off of Egwene, her dress and legs coated with the strange wax, and
stumbled back away from the cell. The floor here in the hallway felt stable. Light, how she wished she
could embrace the source herself! But she was too full of forkroot, not to mention the shield.
Egwene climbed to her feet with a hand from Leane. The room fell still, lamp flickering, all of them
staring at the cell. The melting had stopped, the bars split, the top halves frozen with drips of steel on their
tips, the lower halves bent inward. Many had been flattened to the stones by Leane's escape. The floor
inside the room had bowed inward, like a
n8
THE GATHERING STORM
funnel, the rocks stretching. Those stones bore gashes where Leane's scrambling had scored them.
Leane stood, her heart beating, realizing that only seconds had passed. What should they do? Scuttle away
in fear? Was the rest of the hallway going to melt, too?
Egwene stepped forward, tapping her toe against one of the bars. It resisted. Leane took a step forward,
and her dress crunched, bits of stone— like mortar—falling free. She reached down and brushed at her
skirt, and felt rough rock coating it instead of wax.
"These sorts of events are more frequent," Egwene said calmly, glancing at the two Yellows. "The Dark
One is getting stronger. The Last Battle approaches. What is your Amyrlin doing about it?"
Musarin glanced at her; the tall, aging Aes Sedai looked deeply disturbed. Leane took Egwene's lead,
forcing herself to be calm as she stepped up beside the Amyrlin, chips of stone falling from her dress.
"Yes, well," Musarin said. "You shall return to your rooms, novice. And you . . ." She glanced at Leane,
then at the remains of the cell. "We will . . . have to relocate you."
"And get me a new dress as well, I assume," Leane said, folding her arms.
Musarin's eyes flickered at Egwene. "Go. This is no longer your business, child. We will care for the
prisoner."
Egwene gritted her teeth, but then she turned to Leane. "Stay strong," she said, and hurried away, heading
down the hallway.
Exhausted, disturbed by the stone-warping bubble of evil, Egwene walked with swishing skirts toward the
Tower wing that contained the novices' quarters. What would it take to convince the foolish women that
there wasn't time to spare for squabbling!
The hour was late, and few women walked the corridors, none of them novices. Egwene passed several
servants bustling at late-night duties, their slippered feet falling softly on the floor tiles. These sectors of
the Tower were populated enough that lamps burned on the walls, trimmed low, giving an orange light. A
hundred different polished tiles reflected the flickering flames, looking like eyes that watched Egwene as
she walked.
It was hard to comprehend that this quiet evening had turned into a trap that nearly killed Leane. If even
the ground itself could not be
WHEN IRON MELTS
119
trusted, then what could? Egwene shook her head, too tired, too sore, to think of solutions at the moment.
She barely noticed when the floor tiles turned from gray to a deep brown. She just continued on, into the
Tower wing, counting the doors she passed. Hers was the seventh . . .
She froze, frowning at a pair of Brown sisters: Maenadrin—a Saldaean—and Negaine. The two had been
speaking in hushed whispers, and they frowned at Egwene as she passed them. Why would they be in the
novices' quarters?
But wait. The novices' quarters didn't have brown floor tiles. This section should have had nondescript
gray tiles. And the doors in the hallway were spaced far too widely. This didn't look at all like the novices'
quarters! Had she been so tired that she'd walked in completely the wrong direction?
She retraced her steps, passing the two Brown sisters again. She found a window and looked out. The
rectangular white expanse of the Tower wing extended around her, just as it should. She wasn't lost.
Perplexed, she looked back down the hallway. Maenadrin had folded her arms, regarding Egwene with a
set of dark eyes. Negaine, tall and spindly, stalked up to Egwene. "What business have you here this time
of night, child?" she demanded. "Did a sister send for you? You should be back in your room for sleep."
Wordlessly, Egwene pointed out the window. Negaine glanced out, frowning. She froze, gasping softly.
She looked back in at the hallway, then back out, as if unable to believe where she was.
In minutes, the entire Tower was in a frenzy. Egwene, forgotten, stood at the side of a hallway with a
cluster of bleary-eyed novices as sisters argued with one another in tense voices, trying to determine what
to do. It appeared that two sections of the Tower had been swapped, and the slumbering Brown sisters had
been moved from their sections on the upper levels down into the wing. The novices' rooms—intact—had
been placed where the section of Brown sisters had been. Nobody remembered any motion or vibration
when the swap happened, and the transfer appeared seamless. A line of floor tiles had been split right
down the middle, then melded with tiles from the section that had shifted.
It's getting worse and worse, Egwene thought as the Brown sisters decided—for now—that they would
have to accept the switch. They couldn't very well move sisters into rooms the size that novices used.
That would leave the Browns divided, half in the wing, half in their
120
THE GATHERING STORM
old location—with a clump of novices in the middle of them. A division aptly representative of the
less-visible divisions the Ajahs were suffering. Eventually, exhausted, Egwene and the others were sent
off to sleep— though now she had to trudge up many flights of stairs before reaching her bed.
CHAPTER
7
The Plan for Arad Doman
A storm is coming," Nynaeve said, looking out the window of the manor. "Yes," replied Daigian from her
chair by the hearth without bothering to glance at the window. "I think you might be right, dear. I swear,
it seems as if it has been overcast for weeks!"
"It has been a single week," Nynaeve said, holding her long, dark braid in one hand. She glanced at the
other woman. "I haven't seen a patch of clear sky in over ten days."
Daigian frowned. Of the White Ajah, she was plump and curvaceous. She wore a small stone on her
forehead as Moiraine had so long ago, though Daigian's was an appropriately white moonstone. The
tradition apparently had something to do with being a Cairhien noblewoman, as did the four colored
slashes the woman wore on her dress.
"Ten days, you say?" Daigian said. "Are you certain?"
Nynaeve was. She paid attention to the weather; that was one of the duties of a village Wisdom. She was
Aes Sedai now, but that didn't mean she stopped being who she was. The weather was always there, in the
back of her mind. She could sense the rain, sun, or snow in the wind's whispers.
Lately, however, the sensations hadn't been like whispers at all. More like distant shouts, growing louder.
Or like waves crashing against one another, still far to the north, yet harder and harder to ignore.
121
122
THE GATHERING STORM
"Well," Daigian said, "I'm certain this isn't the only time in history that it has been cloudy for ten days!"
Nynaeve shook her head, tugging on her braid. "It's not normal," she said. "And those overcast skies
aren't the storm I'm talking about. It's still distant, but it's coming. And it is going to be terrible. Worse
than any I've ever seen. Far worse."
"Well, then," Daigian said, sounding slightly uncomfortable, "we will deal with it when it arrives. Are
you going to sit down so that we can continue?"
Nynaeve glanced at the plump Aes Sedai. Daigian was extremely weak in the Power. The White might
just be the weakest Aes Sedai that Nynaeve had ever met. By traditional—yet unspoken—rules, that
meant that Nynaeve should be allowed to take the lead.
Unfortunately, Nynaeve's position was still questionable. Egwene had raised her to the shawl by decree,
just as she'd raised Elayne: there had been no testing, nor had Nynaeve sworn on the Oath Rod. To
most—even those who accepted Egwene's place as the true Amyrlin— those omissions made Nynaeve
something less than Aes Sedai. Not an Accepted, but hardly equal to a sister.
The sisters with Cadsuane were particularly bad, as they hadn't declared for either the White Tower or the
rebels. And the sisters sworn to Rand were worse; most were still loyal to the White Tower, not seeing a
problem with supporting both Elaida and Rand. Nynaeve still wondered what Rand had been thinking,
allowing sisters to swear fealty to him. She'd explained his mistake to him on several occasions—quite
rationally— but talking to Rand these days was like talking to a stone. Only less effective and infinitely
more infuriating.
Daigian was still waiting for her to sit. Rather than provoke a contest of wills, Nynaeve did so. Daigian
was still suffering from having lost her Warder—Eben, an Asha'man—during the fight with the Forsaken.
Nynaeve had spent that fight completely absorbed by providing Rand with immense amounts of saidar to
weave.
Nynaeve could still remember the sheer joy—the awesome euphoria, strength, and sheer feel of life—that
had come from drawing that much power. It frightened her. She was glad the ter'angreal she'd used to
touch that power had been destroyed.
But the male ter'angreal was still intact: an access key to a powerful sa'angreal. As far as Nynaeve knew,
Rand had not been able to persuade Cadsuane to return it to him. As well she shouldn't. No human being,
THE PLAN FOR ARAD DO MAN
123
not even the Dragon Reborn, should channel that much of the One Power. The things one could be
tempted to do. . . .
She'd told Rand that he needed to forget about the access key. Like talking to a stone. A big, red-haired,
iron-faced idiot of a stone. Ny-naeve harrumphed to herself. That caused Daigian to raise an eyebrow.
The woman was quite good at controlling her grief, though Nynaeve— whose room in the Domani
mansion was beside Daigian's—heard the woman crying to herself at night. It was not easy to lose one's
Warder.
Lan. , . .
No, best not to think of him at the moment. Lan would be fine. Only at the end of his journey of
thousands of miles would he be in danger. It was there he intended to throw himself at the Shadow like a
lone arrow loosed at a brick wall . . .
No! she thought to herself. He will not be alone. I saw to that.
"Very well," Nynaeve said, forcing herself to focus, "let us continue." She showed no deference to
Daigian. She was doing this woman a favor, distracting her from her grief. That was how Corele had
explained it, anyway. It wasn't, certainly, for Nynaeve's benefit that they met. She had nothing to prove.
She was Aes Sedai, no matter what the others thought or implied.
This was all just a ruse to help Daigian. That was it. Nothing else.
"Here is the eighty-first weave," the White said. The glow of saidar sprang up around her, and she
channeled, crafting a very complex weave of Fire, Air and Spirit. Complex, but useless. The weave
created three burning rings of fire in the air which glowed with unusual light, but what was the point of
that? Nynaeve already knew how to make fireballs and balls of light; why waste time learning weaves
that repeated what she already knew, only in a far more complicated way? And why did each ring have to
be a slightly different color?
Nynaeve waved an indifferent hand, repeating the weave exactly. "Honestly," she said, "that one seems
the most useless of the bunch! What is the point of all of these?"
Daigian pursed her lips. She said nothing, but Nynaeve knew that Daigian thought that this all should be
far more difficult for Nynaeve than it was. Eventually, the woman spoke. "You cannot be told much about
the testing. The only thing I can say is that you will need to repeat these weaves exactly, and do so while
undergoing extreme distraction. When the time comes, you will understand."
"I doubt it," Nynaeve said flatly, copying the weave three times
124
THE GATHERING STORM
over while she spoke. "Because—as I believe I've told you a dozen times already—I'm not going to be
taking the test. I'm already Aes Sedai."
"Of course you are, dear."
Nynaeve ground her teeth. This had been a bad idea. When she'd approached Corele—supposedly a
member of Nynaeve's own Ajah—the woman had refused to acknowledge her as an equal. She'd been
pleasant about it, as Corele often was, but the implication had been clear. She'd even seemed sympathetic.
Sympathetic! As if Nynaeve needed her pity. She had suggested that if Nynaeve knew the hundred
weaves each Accepted learned for the test to become Aes Sedai, it might help with her credibility.
The problem was, this placed Nynaeve in a situation where she was all but treated as a student again. She
did see the use in knowing the hundred weaves—she'd spent far too short a time studying them, and
virtually every sister knew it. However, by accepting the lessons, she hadn't meant to imply that she saw
herself as a student!
She reached for her braid, but stopped herself. Her visible expressions of emotion were another factor in
how she was treated by the other Aes Sedai. If only she had that ageless face! Bah!
Daigian's next weave made a popping sound in the air, and once again the weave itself was needlessly
complex. Nynaeve copied it with barely a thought, committing it to memory at the same time.
Daigian stared at the weave for a moment, a distant look on her face.
"What?" Nynaeve asked testily.
"Hmm? Oh, nothing. I just . . . the last time I made that weave, I used it to startle ... I ... never mind."
Eben. Her Warder had been young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and she had been very fond of him. Eben
and Daigian had played games together like a boy and an elder sister rather than Aes Sedai and Warder.
A youth of only sixteen, Nynaeve thought, dead. Did Rand have to recruit them so young?
Daigian's face grew stiff, controlling her emotions far better than Nynaeve would have been able to.
Light send that I'm never in the same situation, she thought. At least not for many, many years. Lan wasn't
her Warder yet, but she meant to have him as soon as possible. He was already her husband, after all. It
still angered her that Myrelle had the bond.
"I might be able to help, Daigian," Nynaeve said, leaning forward, laying her hand on the other woman's
knee. "If I were to attempt a Healing, perhaps. . . ."
THE PLAN FOR ARAD DOMAN
125
"No," the woman said curtly.
"But—"
"I doubt you could help."
"Anything can be Healed," Nynaeve said stubbornly, "even if we don't know how yet. Anything save
death."
"And what would you do, dear?" Daigian asked. Nynaeve wondered if she refused to call her by name on
purpose, or if it was an unconscious effect of their relationship. She couldn't use "child," as she would
with an actual Accepted, but to call her "Nynaeve" might imply equality.
"I could do something," Nynaeve said. "This pain you feel, it has to be an effect of the bond, and
therefore something to do with the One Power. If the Power causes your pain, then the Power can take
that pain away."
"And why would I want that?" Daigian asked, in control once again.
"Well . . . well, because it's pain. It hurts."
"It should," Daigian said. "Eben is dead. Would you want to forget your pain if you lost that hulking giant
of yours? Have your feelings for him cut away like some spoiled chunk of flesh in an otherwise good
roast?"
Nynaeve opened her mouth, but stopped. Would she? It wasn't that simple—her feelings for Lan were
genuine, and not due to a bond. He was her husband, and she loved him. Daigian had been possessive of
her Warder, but it had been the affection of an aunt for her favored nephew. It wasn't the same.
But would Nynaeve want that pain taken away? She closed her mouth, suddenly realizing the honor in
Daigian s words. "I see. I'm sorry."
"It is nothing, dear," Daigian continued. "The logic of it seems simple to me at times, but I fear that others
do not accept it. Indeed, some might argue that the logic of the issue depends on the moment and the
individual. Shall I show you the next weave?"
"Yes, please," Nynaeve said, frowning. She herself was so strong in the Power—one of the strongest
alive—that she often took little thought for her ability. It was much as a very tall man rarely paid attention
to other people's heights; everyone else was shorter than he, and so their different heights didn't matter
much.
What was it like to be this woman, who had spent longer as an Accepted than anyone else in memory? A
woman who had barely attained the shawl, doing so—many said—by an eyelash and a whisper? Daigian
had to show deference to all other Aes Sedai. If two sisters met, Daigian was always the lesser. If more
than two sisters met, Daigian served them
126
THE GATHERING STORM
tea. Before the more powerful sisters, she was expected to scrape and grovel. Well, not that, she was Aes
Sedai, but still. . . .
"There is something wrong with this system, Daigian," Nynaeve said absently.
"With the testing? It seems appropriate that there should be some kind of test to determine worthiness,
and the performing of difficult weaves under stress strikes me as fulfilling that need."
"I didn't mean that," Nynaeve said, "I mean the system that determines how we are treated. By each
other."
Daigian flushed. It was inappropriate to refer to another's power, in any way. But, well, Nynaeve had
never been very good at conforming to other people's expectations. Particularly when they expected
foolishness. "There you sit," she said, "knowing as much as any other Aes Sedai— knowing more than
many, I'd wager—and the moment any Accepted just off apron strings gains the shawl, you have to do
what she says."
Daigian's blush deepened. "We should move on."
It just wasn't right. Nynaeve let the matter drop, however. She'd stepped in this particular pit once before
in teaching the Kinswomen to stand up for themselves in front of Aes Sedai. Before long, they'd been
standing up to Nynaeve too, which had not been her intention. She wasn't certain she wanted to attempt a
similar revolution among the Aes Sedai themselves.
She tried to turn back to the tutoring, but that sense of an impending storm kept drawing her eyes to the
window. The room was on the second floor and had a good view of the camp outside. It was by pure
happenstance that Nynaeve caught a glimpse of Cadsuane; that gray bun set with innocent-looking
ter'angreal was obvious even from a distance. The woman was crossing the courtyard, Corele at her side,
walking at a fair clip.
What is she doing? Nynaeve wondered. Cadsuane's pace made her suspicious. What had happened?
Something to do with Rand? If that man had gotten himself hurt again . . .
"Excuse me, Daigian," Nynaeve said, standing. "I just remembered something that I must see to."
The other woman started. "Oh. Well, all right then, Nynaeve. We can continue another time, I suppose."
It wasn't until Nynaeve had hurried out the door and down the stairs that she realized Daigian had actually
used her name. She smiled as she walked out onto the green.
THE PLAN FOR ARAD DOMAN
127
There were Aiel in the camp. That itself wasn't uncommon; Rand often had a complement of Maidens to
act as guards. But these Aiel were men, wearing the dusty brown cadin'sor and carrying spears at their
sides. A fair number of them wore the headbands bearing Rand's symbol on them.
That was why Cadsuane had been in such a hurry; if the Aiel clan chiefs had arrived, then Rand would be
wanting to meet with them. Nynaeve strode across the green—which wasn't very green at all—in a huff.
Rand hadn't sent for her. Probably not because he didn't want to include her, but because he was just too
wool-headed to think of it. Dragon Reborn or not, the man rarely thought to share his plans with others.
She would have thought that after all this time, he would have reali2ed the importance of getting advice
from someone a little more experienced than he. How many times now had he gotten himself kidnapped,
wounded or imprisoned because of his rashness?
All these others in camp might bow and scrape and dote on him, but Nynaeve knew that he was really just
a sheepherder from Emond's Field. He still got into trouble the same way he had when he and Matrim had
pulled pranks as boys. Only now instead of flustering the village girls he could throw entire nations into
chaos.
On the far northern side of the green—directly opposite the manor house, close to the front of the
bulwark—the Aiel newcomers were setting up their camp, complete with tan tents. They arranged them
differently than the Saldaeans; instead of straight rows, the Aiel preferred small groups, organized by
society. Some of Bashere's men called greetings to passing Aiel, but none moved to help. Aiel could be a
prickly bunch, and while Nynaeve found the Saldaeans to be far less irrational than most, they were
Borderlanders. Skirmishes with Aiel had been a way of life for them in earlier years, and the Aiel war
itself was not so distant. For now, they all fought on the same side, but that didn't keep the Saldaeans from
stepping a little more carefully now that the Aiel had arrived in force.
Nynaeve scanned for signs of Rand or any Aiel she knew. She doubted that Aviendha would be with the
group; she would be back in Caemlyn with Elayne, helping secure the throne of Andor. Nynaeve still felt
guilty for leaving them, but somebody had needed to help Rand cleanse saidin. That wasn't the sort of
thing you left him to do alone. Now, where was he?
Nynaeve stopped at the boundary between the Saldaeans and the new Aiel camp. Soldiers carrying lances
nodded to her in respect. Aiel in brown and green glided across the grass, their motions smooth as water.
128
THE GATHERING STORM
Women in blues and greens carried wash from the stream beside the manor house. Broad-needled pines
shivered in the wind. The camp bustled like the village green at Bel Tine. Which way had Cadsuane
gone?
She sensed channeling in the northeast. Nynaeve smiled, setting off with a determined step, yellow skirt
swishing. The channeling would either be an Aes Sedai or a Wise One. Sure enough, she soon saw a
larger Aiel tent erected at the corner of the green. She strode straight for it, her stares—or perhaps her
reputation—encouraging Saldaean soldiers to get out of her way. The Maidens guarding the entrance did
not try to stop her.
Rand stood inside, wearing black and red, leafing through maps on a sturdy wooden table, his left arm
held behind his back. Bashere stood at his side, nodding to himself and studying a small map he held
before him.
Rand looked up as Nynaeve entered. When had he started looking so much like a Warder, with that
instant glance of assessment? Those eyes which picked out every threat, body tense as if expecting an
attack at any time? / should never have let that woman take him from the Two Rivers, she thought. Look what it's
done to him.
She immediately frowned at her own foolishness. If Rand had stayed in the Two Rivers, he would have
gone mad and perhaps destroyed them all—assuming, of course, the Trollocs, the Fades or the Forsaken
themselves hadn't accomplished the task first. If Moiraine hadn't come for Rand, he'd now be dead. With
him would have gone the light and hope of the world. It was just hard to abandon her old prejudices.
"Ah, Nynaeve," Rand said, relaxing and turning back to his maps. He motioned for Bashere to inspect one
of them, then turned back to her. "I was about to send for you. Rhuarc and Bael are here."
Nynaeve raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. "Oh?" she asked flatly. "And here I'd assumed that all the
Aiel in the camp meant we had been attacked by Shaido."
His face hardened at her tone, and those eyes of his grew . . . dangerous. But then he lightened, shaking
his head, almost as if to clear it. Some of the old Rand—the Rand who had been an innocent
sheepherder— seemed to return. "Yes, of course you would have noticed," he said. "I'm glad you are
here. We will begin as soon as the clan chiefs return. I insisted they see their people settled before we
began."
He waved for her to sit; there were cushions on the floor, but no chairs. Aiel spurned those, and Rand
would want them to be comfortable. Nynaeve eyed him, surprised at how tight her own nerves had beTHE PLAN
FOR
ARAD DOMAN
129
come. He was just a wool-headed villager, no matter how much influence he'd found. He was.
But she could not shake away that look in his eyes, that flash of anger. Holding a crown was said to
change many men for the worse. She intended to see that didn't happen to Rand al'Thor, but what recourse
would she have if he suddenly decided to have her imprisoned? He wouldn't do that, would he? Not Rand.
Semirhage said he was mad, Nynaeve thought. Said that. . . he heard voices from his past life. Is that what is
happening when he cocks his head, as if listening to things that nobody else can hear?
She shivered. Min was there in the tent, of course, sitting and reading a book in the corner: The Wake of
the Breaking. Min looked too intently at the pages; she'd listened to the exchange between Rand and
Nynaeve. What did she think of the changes in him? She was closer to him than anyone—close enough
that, if they'd all been back in Emond's Field, Nynaeve would have given the two of them a
tongue-lashing strong enough to make their heads spin. Even though they weren't in Emond's Field and
she was no longer Wisdom, she'd made certain that Rand knew of her displeasure. His response had been
simple: "If I marry her, my death will bring her even more pain."
More idiocy, of course. If you were planning to go into danger, then it was all the more reason to get
married. Obviously. Nynaeve seated herself on the floor, arranging her skirts, and pointedly did not think
of Lan. He had such a long distance to cover, and. . . .
And she had to make sure that she was given his bond before he reached the Blight. Just in case.
Suddenly, she sat upright. Cadsuane. The woman wasn't there; besides guards, the tent contained only
Rand, Nynaeve, Min and Bashere. Was she off planning something that Nynaeve—
Cadsuane entered. The gray-haired Aes Sedai wore a simple tan dress. She relied on presence, not
clothing, to draw attention, and of course her hair sparkled with its golden ornaments. Corele followed her
in.
Cadsuane wove a ward against eavesdropping, and Rand did not object. He should stick up for himself
more—that woman practically had him tamed, and it was unsettling how much he let her get away with.
Like questioning Semirhage. The Forsaken were far too powerful and dangerous to treat lightly.
Semirhage should have been stilled the moment they captured her . . . though Nynaeve s opinion in that
regard was directly related to her own experience in keeping Moghedien captive.
130
THE GATHERING STORM
Corele gave Nynaeve a smile; she tended to have one of those for everyone. Cadsuane, as usual, ignored
Nynaeve. That was fine. Nynaeve had no need for her approval. Cadsuane thought she could order
everyone around just because she'd outlived every other Aes Sedai. Well, Nynaeve knew for a fact that
age had little to do with wisdom. Cenn Buie had been as old as rain, but had about as much sense as a pile
of rocks.
Many of the camp's other Aes Sedai and camp leaders trickled into the tent over the next few minutes;
perhaps Rand really bad sent messengers, and would have called for Nynaeve. The newcomers included
Merise and her Warders, one of whom was the Asha'man Jahar Narishma, bells tinkling on the ends of his
braids. Damer Flinn, Elza Penfell, a few of Bashere's officers also arrived. Rand glanced up when each
one entered, alert and wary, but he quickly turned back to his maps. Was he growing paranoid? Some
madmen grew suspicious of everyone.
Eventually, Rhuarc and Bael made their appearance, along with several other Aiel. They stalked through
the tent's large entrance like cats on the prowl. In an odd turn, a batch of Wise Ones—whom Nynaeve had
been able to sense when they got close—were among the group. Often, with Aiel, an event was either
considered clan chief business or Wise One business—much as things happened back in the Two Rivers
with the Village Council and the Women's Circle. Had Rand asked for them all to attend, or had they
decided to come together for reasons of their own?
Nynaeve had been wrong about Aviendha's location; she was shocked to see the tall, red-haired woman
hovering at the back of the group of Wise Ones. When had she left Caemlyn? And why was she carrying
that worn cloth with a frayed edge?
Nynaeve didn't get a chance to ask Aviendha any questions, as Rand nodded to Rhuarc and the others,
motioning for them to sit, which they did. Rand himself remained standing beside his map table. He
placed his arms behind his back, hand clasping stump, a thoughtful look on his face. He offered no
preamble. "Tell me of your work in Arad Doman," he said to Rhuarc. "My scouts inform me that this land
is hardly at peace."
Rhuarc accepted a cup of tea from Aviendha—so she was still considered an apprentice—and turned to
Rand. The clan chief did not drink. "We have had very little time, Rand al'Thor."
"I don't look for excuses, Rhuarc," Rand said. "Only results."
This brought flashes of anger to the faces of several of the other Aiel, and the Maidens at the doorway
exchanged a furious burst of hand signals.
Rhuarc himself displayed no anger, though Nynaeve did think his
THE PLAN FOR ARAD DOMAN
131
hand tightened on his cup. "I have shared water with you, Rand al'Thor," he said. "I would not think that
you would bring me here to offer insults."
"No insults, Rhuarc," Rand said. "Just truths. We don't have time to waste."
"No time, Rand al'Thor?" Bael said. The clan chief of the Goshien Aiel was a very tall man, and he
seemed to tower, even when sitting down. "You left many of us in Andor for months with nothing to do
but polish spears and scare wetlanders! Now you send us to this land with impossible orders, then follow
a few weeks later and demand results?"
"You were in Andor to help Elayne," Rand said.
"She did not want or need help," Bael said with a snort. "And she was right to refuse aid. I'd rather run
across the entire Waste with a single skin of water than have leadership of my clan handed to me by
another."
Rand's expression grew dark again, his eyes stormy, and Nynaeve was again reminded of the tempest
brewing to the north.
"This land is broken, Rand al'Thor," Rhuarc said, his voice calmer than Bael's. "It is not making excuses
to explain that fact, and it is not cowardice to be cautious about a difficult task."
"We must have peace here," Rand growled. "If you can't manage—"
"Boy," Cadsuane said, "perhaps you want to stop and think. How often have you known the Aiel to fail
you? How often have you failed, hurt, or offended them?"
Rand snapped his mouth closed, and Nynaeve gritted her teeth at not having spoken up herself. She
glanced at Cadsuane, who had been given a chair to sit upon—Nynaeve couldn't recall ever seeing her sit
on the floor. The chair had obviously been taken from the manor; it was constructed from pale elgilrim
horns—which stretched out like open palms—and had a red cushion. Aviendha handed Cadsuane a cup of
tea, which she sipped carefully.
With obvious effort, Rand pulled his temper back under control. "I apologize, Rhuarc, Bael. It has been a
... wearing few months."
"You have no toh" Rhuarc said. "But please, sit. Let us share shade and speak with civility."
Rand sighed audibly, then nodded, seating himself before the other two. The several Wise Ones in
attendance—Amys, Melaine, Bair—didn't seem inclined to participate in the discussion. They were
observers, much—Nynaeve realized—as she herself was.
"We must have peace in Arad Doman, my friends," Rand said, unrolling a map between them on the tent
rug.
132
THE GATHERING STORM
Bael shook his head. "Dobraine Taborwin has done well with Bandar Eban," he said, "but Rhuarc spoke
rightly when he called this land broken. It is like a piece of Sea Folk porcelain dropped from the tip of a
high mountain. You told us to discover who was in charge and see if we could restore order. Well, as far
as we can tell, no one is in charge. Each city has been left to fend for itself."
"What of the Council of Merchants?" Bashere said, sitting down with them, knuckling his mustache as he
studied the map. "My scouts say that they still hold some measure of power."
"In the cities where they rule, this is true," Rhuarc said. "But their influence is weak. There is only one
member still in the capital, and she has little control there. We have stopped the fighting in the streets, but
only with great effort." He shook his head. "This is what comes from trying to control more lands than
holds and clan. Without their king, these Domani do not know who is in charge."
"Where is he?" Rand asked.
"Nobody knows, Rand al'Thor. He vanished. Some say months ago, others say it has been years."
"Graendal might have him," Rand whispered, studying the map intently. "If she's here. Yes, I think she
probably is. But where? She won't be in the king's palace, that's not her way. She will have some place
that is hers, a place where she can display her trophies. A location that would make a trophy itself, but not
a place that one would think of immediately. Yes, I know. You're right. That's how she did it before. . . ."
Such familiarity! Nynaeve shivered. Aviendha knelt beside her, holding out a cup of tea. Nynaeve took it,
meeting the woman's eyes, then began to whisper a question. Aviendha shook her head curtly. Later, her
expression seemed to imply. Aviendha rose and retreated to the back of the room and then, grimacing,
took out her frayed cloth and began pulling the threads out one at a time. What was the point of that?
"Cadsuane," Rand said, stopping his whispering, speaking up. "What do you know of the Council of
Merchants?"
"They are mostly women," Cadsuane said, "and women of great cunning at that. However, they are also a
selfish lot. It is their duty to choose the king, and with Alsalam's disappearance, they should have found a
replacement. Too many of them see this as an opportunity, and that keeps them from reaching an
agreement. I can assume that they've separated in face of this chaos to secure power in their home cities,
fighting for posiTHE PLAN FOR ARAD DOMAN
133
tion and alliances as they each offer their own choice of king for the others to consider."
"And this Domani army fighting the Seanchan?" Rand asked. "Is that their doing?"
"I know nothing of that."
"You speak of the man Rodel Ituralde," Rhuarc said.
"Yes."
"He fought well twenty years ago," Rhuarc said, rubbing his square chin. "He is of the ones you call a
Great Captain. I should like to dance the spears with him."
"You will not," Rand said sharply. "Not while I live, at least. We will secure this land."
"And you expect us to do this without fighting?" Bael asked. "This Rodel Ituralde reportedly fights like a
sandstorm against the Seanchan, drawing their ire better—even—than you yourself, Rand al'Thor. He will
not sleep while you conquer his homeland."
"Once again," Rand said, "we are not here to conquer."
Rhuarc sighed. "Then why send us, Rand al'Thor? Why not use your Aes Sedai? They understand
wetlanders. This country is like an entire kingdom of children, and we are too few adults to bring them to
obedience. Particularly if you forbid us to spank them."
"You can fight," Rand said, "but only when you need to. Rhuarc, this has gone beyond the ability of Aes
Sedai to fix. You can do this. People are intimidated by the Aiel; they will do as you say. If we can stop
the Domani war with the Seanchan, perhaps this Daughter of the Nine Moons will see that I am serious in
my desire for peace. Then maybe she'll agree to meet with me."
"Why not do as you've done before?" Bael asked. "Seize the land for your own?"
Bashere nodded, glancing at Rand.
"It won't work, not this time," Rand said. "A war here would take too many resources. You spoke of this
Ituralde—he's holding off the Seanchan with virtually no supplies and few men. Would you have us
engage a man that resourceful?"
How thoughtful Bashere seemed, as if he were indeed considering engaging this Ituralde. Men! They
were all the same. Offer them a challenge, and they'd be curious, no matter that the challenge would likely
end with them spitted on a lance.
134
THE GATHERING STORM
"There are few men alive like Rodel Ituralde," Bashere said. "He would be a great help to our cause, for
certain. I've always wondered if I could beat him."
"No," Rand said again, looking over the map. From what Nynaeve could see, it showed troop
concentrations, marked with annotations. The Aiel were an organized mess of charcoal marks across the
top of Arad Do-man; Ituralde's forces were deep into Almoth Plain, fighting Seanchan. The middle of
Arad Doman was a sea of chaotic black annotations, likely the personal forces of various nobles.
"Rhuarc, Bael,' Rand said. "I want you to seize the members of the Council of Merchants."
The tent was silent.
"Are you certain that is wise, boy?" Cadsuane finally asked.
"They're in danger from the Forsaken," Rand said, idly tapping the map with his fingers. "If Graendal
really has taken Alsalam, then getting him back will do us no good. He'll be so far beneath her
Compulsion that he'll barely have the mind of a child. She's not subtle; she never has been. We need the
Council of Merchants to choose a new king. That's the only way to bring this kingdom peace and order."
Bashere nodded. "It's bold."
"We are not kidnappers," Bael said, frowning.
"You are what I say you are, Bael," Rand said quietly.
"We are still free people, Rand al'Thor," Rhuarc said.
"I will change the Aiel with my passing," Rand said with a shake of his head. "I don't know what you'll be
once this is all through, but you cannot remain what you were. I will have you take up this task. Of all
those who follow me, I trust you the most. If we're going to take the members of the Council without
throwing this land further into war, I will need your cunning and stealth. You can prowl into their palaces
and manors as you infiltrated the Stone of Tear."
Rhuarc and Bael regarded one another, sharing a frown.
"Once you take the Council of Merchants," Rand continued, apparently unconcerned about their worries,
"move the Aiel into the cities where those merchants ruled. Make sure those cities don't degenerate.
Restore order as you did in Bandar Eban. From there, begin hunting bandits and enforcing the law.
Supplies will soon arrive from the Sea Folk. Take cities on the coast first, then move inland. Within a
month's time, the Domani should be flowing toward you, rather than running away from you. Offer them
safety and food, and order will take care of itself."
THE PLAN FOR ARAD DOMAN
135
A surprisingly rational plan. Rand really did have a clever mind, for a man. There was a lot of good in
him, perhaps the very soul of a leader, if he could keep his temper in check.
Rhuarc continued to rub his chin. "It would help if we had some of your Saldaeans, Davram Bashere.
Wetlanders do not like following Aiel. If they can pretend that wetlanders are in charge, then they will be
more likely to come to us."
Bashere laughed. "We'll also make nice targets. As soon as we seize a few members of the merchant
council, the rest will send assassins after us for certain!"
Rhuarc laughed as if he thought that a grand joke. The Aiel sense of humor was its own sort of oddity.
"We will keep you alive, Davram Bashere. If we do not, we will stuff you and set you on that horse of
yours, and you will make a grand quiver for their arrows!"
Bael laughed loudly at this, and the Maidens by the doors began another round of handtalk.
Bashere chuckled, though he didn't seem to understand the humor either. "You sure this is what you want
to do?" he asked Rand.
Rand nodded. "Divide some of your forces, send them with Aiel groups as Rhuarc decides."
"And what of Ituralde?" Bashere asked, looking back at the map. "There won't be peace for long once he
realizes we've invaded his homeland."
Rand tapped the map softly for a moment. "I will deal with him personally," he finally said.
CHAPTER 8
Clean Shirts
Adockmaster's sky, it was called. Those gray clouds, blotting out the sun, temperamental and sullen.
Perhaps the others—here in the camp just outside of Tar Valon—hadn't noticed the persistent clouds, but
Siuan had. No sailor would miss them. Not dark enough to promise a storm, not light enough to imply
smooth waters either.
A sky like that was ambiguous. You could set out and never see a drop of rain or a hint of stormwinds.
Or, with barely a moment's notice, you could find yourself in the middle of a squall. It was deceitful, that
blanket of clouds.
Most ports charged a daily fee to each vessel moored in their harbors, but on days of storm—when no
fisher could make a catch—the fee would be halved, or spared entirely. On a day like this, however, when
there were gloomy clouds but no proof of storms, the dockmasters would charge a full day's rent. And so
the fisher had to make a choice. Stay in the harbor and wait, or go fishing to recoup the dock fees. Most
days like this didn't turn stormy. Most days like this were safe.
But if a storm did come on a day like this, it tended to be very bad. Many of the most terrible tempests in
history had sprung from a dock-master's sky. That's why some fishers had another name for clouds like
those. They called them a lionfish's veil. And it had been days since the sky
136
CLEAN SHIRTS
137
had offered anything different. Siuan shivered, pulling her shawl close. It was a bad sign.
She doubted many fishers had chosen to go out this day.
"Siuan?" Lelaine asked, voice tinged with annoyance. "Do hurry up. And I don't want to hear any more
superstitious nonsense about the sky. Honestly." The tall Aes Sedai turned away and continued along the
walk.
Superstitious? Siuan thought indignantly. A thousand generations of-wisdom isn't superstition. It's good
sense! But she said nothing, and hurried after Lelaine. Around her, the camp of Aes Sedai loyal to
Egwene continued its daily activities, as steady as a clock's gears. If there was one thing Aes Sedai were
good at, it was creating order. Tents were arranged in clusters, by Ajah, as if to imitate the White Tower's
layout. There were few men, and most of those who passed—soldiers on errands from Gareth Bryne's
armies, grooms caring for horses—were quick to be about their duties. They were far outnumbered by
worker women, many of whom had gone so far as to embroider the pattern of the Flame of Tar Valon on
their skirts or bodices.
One of the only oddities about the village—if one ignored the fact that there were tents instead of rooms
and wooden walkways instead of tiled hallways—was the number of novices. There were hundreds and
hundreds. In fact, the number had to be over a thousand now, many more than the Tower had held in
recent memory. Once the Aes Sedai were reunited, novices' quarters that hadn't been used in decades
would have to be reopened. They might even need the second kitchen.
These novices bustled around in families, and most of the Aes Sedai tried to ignore them. Some did this
out of habit; who paid attention to novices? But others did so out of displeasure. By their estimation,
women aged enough to be mothers and grandmothers—indeed, many who were mothers and
grandmothers—shouldn't have been entered into the novice book. But what could be done? Egwene
al'Vere, the Amyrlin Seat, had declared that it should happen.
Siuan could still sense shock in some of the Aes Sedai she passed. Egwene was to have been carefully
controlled. What had gone wrong? When had the Amyrlin gotten away from them? Siuan would have
taken more smug delight from those looks if she hadn't herself worried about Egwene's continued
captivity in the White Tower. That was a lionfish's veil indeed. Potential for great success, but also for
great disaster. She hurried after Lelaine.
138
THE GATHERING STORM
"What is the status of the negotiations?" Lelaine asked, not bothering to look at Siuan.
You could go to one of the sessions yourself and find out, Siuan thought. But Lelaine wanted to be seen
supervising, not taking an active hand. And asking Siuan, in the open, was also a calculated move. Siuan
was known as one of Egwene's confidants and still carried some measure of notoriety for having been
Amyrlin herself. The things Siuan said to Lelaine weren't important; being seen saying them, however,
increased the woman's influence in camp.
"They don't go well, Lelaine," Siuan said. "Elaida's emissaries never promise anything, and seem
indignant any time we raise important topics, like reinstating the Blue Ajah. I doubt they have any real
authority from Elaida to make binding agreements."
"Hmm," Lelaine said thoughtfully, nodding to a group of novices. They bobbed into curtsies. In a shrewd
decision, Lelaine had begun talking very acceptingly of the new novices.
Romanda's dislike of them was well known; now that Egwene was gone, Romanda had begun to imply
that once reconciliation was achieved, this "foolishness" with the aged novices would have to be dealt
with swiftly. However, more and more of the other sisters were seeing Egwene's wisdom. There was great
strength among the new novices, and not a few would be raised to Accepted the moment the White Tower
was achieved. Recently—by offering tacit acceptance of these women—Lelaine had given herself yet
another tie to Egwene.
Siuan eyed the retreating family of novices. They had curtsied to Lelaine almost as quickly and as
deferentially as they would have to the Amyrlin. It was becoming clear that, after months at a stalemate,
Lelaine was winning the battle against Romanda for superiority.
And that was a very large problem.
Siuan didn't dislike Lelaine. She was capable, strong-willed and decisive. They had been friends once,
though their relationship had changed drastically with Siuan's changed position.
Yes, she might say she liked Lelaine. But she didn't trust the woman, and she particularly didn't want to
see her as Amyrlin. In another era, Lelaine would have done well in the position. But this world needed
Egwene, and—friendship or not—Siuan couldn't afford to let this woman displace the rightful Amyrlin.
And she had to make certain Lelaine wasn't taking action to prevent Egwene's return.
"Well," Lelaine said, "we shall have to discuss the negotiations in the
CLEAN SHIRTS
139
Hall. The Amyrlin wants them to continue, so we certainly can't let them stop. Yet there must be a way to
make them effective. The Amyrlin's desires must be seen to, wouldn't you say?"
"Undoubtedly," Siuan replied flatly.
Lelaine eyed her, and Siuan cursed herself for letting her emotions show. Lelaine needed to believe that
Siuan was on her side. "I'm sorry, Lelaine. That woman has me in a fury. Why does Elaida hold talks if
she won't concede a single point?"
Lelaine nodded. "Yes. But who can say why Elaida does what she does? The Amyrlin's reports indicate
that Elaida's leadership of the Tower has been . . . erratic at best."
Siuan simply nodded. Fortunately, Lelaine didn't seem to suspect Siuan's disloyalty. Or she didn't care
about it. It was remarkable how innocuous the women thought Siuan was, now that her power had been
so greatly reduced.
Being weak was a new experience. From her very early days in the White Tower, sisters had noted her
strength and her sharpness of mind. Whispers of her becoming Amyrlin had begun almost
immediately—at times, it seemed that the Pattern itself had pushed Siuan directly into the Seat. Though
her hasty ascent to Amyrlin while so young had come as a surprise to many, she herself had not been
shocked. When you fished with squid as bait, you shouldn't be surprised to catch fangfish. If you wanted
to catch eels, you used something else entirely.
When she'd first been Healed, her reduced power had been a disappointment. But that was changing. Yes,
it was infuriating to be beneath so many, to lack respect from those around her. However, because she
was weaker in power, many seemed to assume she was weaker in political skill as well! Could people
really forget so quickly? She was finding her new status among the Aes Sedai to be liberating.
"Yes," Lelaine said as she nodded to another group of novices, "I believe that it is time to send envoys to
the kingdoms that al'Thor hasn't conquered. We may not hold the White Tower itself, but that is no reason
to abandon our political stewardship of the world."
"Yes, Lelaine," Siuan said. "But are you certain that Romanda won't argue against that?"
"Why would she?" Lelaine said dismissively. "It wouldn't make sense."
"Little Romanda does makes sense," Siuan said. "I think she disagrees just to spite you. But I did see her
chatting with Maralenda earlier in the week."
140
THE GATHERING STORM
Lelaine frowned. Maralenda was a distant cousin to the Trakand line.
Siuan covered a smile. It was amazing how much you could accomplish when people dismissed you.
How many women had she dismissed because they lacked visible power? How often had she been
manipulated much as she now manipulated Lelaine?
"I shall look into it," Lelaine said. It didn't matter what she discovered; as long as she was kept busy
worrying about Romanda, she wouldn't be able to spend as much time stealing power from Egwene.
Egwene. The Amyrlin needed to hurry up and finish with her plotting in the White Tower. What good
would it do to undermine Elaida if the Aes Sedai outside crumbled while Egwene wasn't watching? Siuan
could only keep Romanda and Lelaine distracted for so long, particularly now that Lelaine held such a
distinct advantage. Light! Some days, she felt that she was trying to juggle buttered live silverpike.
Siuan checked the position of the sun behind that dockmaster's sky. It was late afternoon. "Fish guts," she
muttered. "I'll need to be going, Lelaine."
Lelaine glanced at her. "You have washing, I presume? For that ruffian of a general of yours?"
"He's not a ruffian," Siuan snapped, then cursed herself. She'd lose much of her advantage if she kept
snapping at those who thought themselves her betters.
Lelaine smiled, eyes twinkling as if she knew something special. Insufferable woman. Friend or not,
Siuan had half a mind to wipe . . .
No. "I apologize, Lelaine," Siuan forced out. "I get on edge, thinking of what that man demands of me."
"Yes," Lelaine said, downturning her lips. "I've considered on this, Siuan. The Amyrlin may have
suffered Bryne's bullying of a sister, but I won't stand for it. You're one of my attendants now."
One of your attendants? Siuan thought. / thought that I was just supposed to support you until Egwene returned.
"Yes," Lelaine mused, "I should think it's time to put an end to your servitude to Bryne. I shall pay off
your debt, Siuan."
"Pay off my debt?" Siuan said, feeling a moment of panic. "Is that wise? Not that I wouldn't mind being
free of that man, of course, but my position offers me quite useful opportunities for listening in on his
plans."
"Plans?" Lelaine asked, frowning.
Siuan cringed inwardly. The last thing she wanted was to imply
CLEAN SHIRTS
141
wrongdoing on Bryne's part. Light, the man was strict enough to make Warders look sloppy in keeping
their oaths.
She should just let Lelaine end this foolish servitude, but the thought made her stomach churn. Bryne was
already disappointed that she'd broken her oath to him months before. Well, she hadn't broken that oath—
she'd just postponed her period of service. But try convincing the stubborn fool of that fact!
If she took the easy way out now, what would he think of her? He'd think that he'd won, that she'd proven
herself unable to keep her word. There was no way she'd let that happen.
Besides, she wasn't about to let Lelaine be the one who freed her. That would just move her debt from
Bryne to Lelaine. The Aes Sedai would collect it in far more subtle ways, but each coin would end up
being paid one way or another, if only through demands of loyalty.
"Lelaine," Siuan said softly, "I don't suspect the good general of anything. However, he controls our
armies. Can he really be trusted to do as required without any supervision?"
Lelaine sniffed. "I'm not certain any man can be trusted without direction."
"I hate doing his laundry," Siuan said. Well, she did. Even if she wouldn't be stopped from doing it for all
of the gold in Tar Valon. "But if the duty keeps me close, with a listening ear. . . ."
"Yes," Lelaine said, nodding slowly. "Yes, I see that you are right. I will not forget your sacrifice, Siuan.
Very well, you are dismissed."
Lelaine turned, glancing down at her hand, as if longing for something. Probably wishing for the day
when—as Amyrlin—she could offer her Great Serpent ring for a kiss when she parted ways with another
sister. Light, but Egwene needed to return soon. Buttered silverpike! Buttered, flaming silverpike!
Siuan made her way toward the edge of the Aes Sedai camp. Bryne's army surrounded the Aes Sedai
camp in a large ring, but she was on the far side of the ring from Bryne. It would take a good half-hour to
walk to his command post. Fortunately, she found a wagon driver who was taking a load of supplies,
brought through a gateway, to the army. The short, grizzled man immediately agreed to let her ride with
the turnips, though he did seem puzzled why she didn't go get a horse, as befitted an Aes Sedai's station.
Well, it wasn't that far, and riding with vegetables was a iate far less undignified than being forced to
jounce around on the
142
THE GATHERING STORM
back of a horse. If Gareth Bryne wanted to complain about her tardiness, then he'd get an earful, he
would!
She settled back against a lumpy sack of turnips, brown-skirted legs hanging over the back of the wagon.
As the cart rolled up a slight incline, she could see over the Aes Sedai camp—with its white tents and
citylike organization. Ringed around it was the army, with smaller tents in neat straight lines, and ringed
around them was a growing ring of camp followers.
Beyond it all, the landscape was brown, the winter snows melted, but spring sprouts scarce. The
countryside was pocketed with thickets of scrub oak; shadows in valleys and twisting lines of chimney
smoke pointed to distant villages. It was surprising how familiar, how welcome, these grasslands felt.
When she had first come to the White Tower, she'd been sure she'd never come to love this landlocked
countryside.
Now she had lived much more of her life in Tar Valon than she had in Tear. It was difficult at times to
recall that girl who had sewn nets and gone on early-morning trawling trips with her father. She'd become
something else, a woman who traded in secrets rather than fish.
Secrets, those powerful, dominating secrets. They had become her life. No love save for youthful
dalliances. No time for entanglements, or much room for friendships. She'd focused on only one thing:
finding the Dragon Reborn. Helping him, guiding him, hopefully controlling him.
Moiraine had died following that same quest, but at least she had been able to go out and see the world.
Siuan had grown old—in spirit, if not in body—cooped up in the Tower, pulling her strings and nudging
the world. She'd done some good. Time would tell if those efforts had been enough.
She didn't regret her life. Yet, at this moment, passing army tents— holes and broken ruts in the path
shaking the cart, making it rattle like dried fishbones in a kettle—she envied Moiraine. How often had
Siuan bothered to look out of her window toward the beautiful green landscape, before it all had started
going sickly? She and Moiraine had fought so hard to save this world, but they had left themselves
without anything to enjoy in it.
Perhaps Siuan had made a mistake in staying with the Blue, unlike Leane, who had taken the opportunity
in their stilling and Healing to change to the Green Ajah. No, Siuan thought, wagon rattling, smelling of
bitter turnips. No, I'm still focused on saving this blasted world. There would be no switching to the
Green for her. Though, thinking of Bryne,
CLEAN SHIRTS
143
she did wish that the Blue were a little more like the Green in certain ways.
Siuan the Amyrlin hadn't had any time for entanglements, but what of Siuan the attendant? Guiding
people with quiet manipulations required a lot more skill than bullying them with the power of the
Amyrlin Seat, and it was proving more fulfilling. But it also left her without the crushing weight of
responsibility she'd felt during her years leading the White Tower. Was there, perhaps, room in her life
for a few more changes?
The wagon reached the far side of the army camp, and she shook her head at her own foolishness as she
hopped down, then nodded her thanks to the wagon driver. Was she a girl, barely old enough for her first
full-day blackfish trawl? There was no use in thinking of Bryne that way. At least not right now. There
was too much to do.
She walked along the perimeter of the camp, army tents to her left. It was growing dark, and lanterns
burning precious oil illuminated disorganized shanties and tents to her right. Ahead of her, a small
circular palisade rose on the army side. It didn't enclose the entire army—in fact, it was only big enough
for several dozen officer tents and some larger command tents. It was to act as a fortification in an
emergency, but always as a center of operations—Bryne felt it good to have a physical barrier separating
the larger camp from the place where he held conference with his officers. With the confusion of the
civilian camp, and with such a long border to patrol, it would be too easy for spies to approach his tents
otherwise.
The palisade was only about three-quarters done, but work was progressing quickly. Perhaps he would
choose to surround the entire army, eventually, if the siege continued long enough. For now, Bryne felt
that the small, fortified command post would not only suggest security to the soldiers, but also lend them
a sense of authority.
The eight-foot wooden stakes rose from the ground ahead, a line of sentinels standing side by side, points
raised to the sky. While holding a siege one generally had a lot of manpower for work like this. The
guards at the palisade gate knew to let her pass, and she quickly made her way to Bryne's tent. She did
have washing to do, but most of it would probably have to wait until the morning. She was supposed to
meet Egwene in Tel'aran'rhiod as soon as it grew dark, and the glow of the sunset was already beginning
to fade.
Bryne's tent, as usual, shone with only a very faint light. While people outside squandered their oil, he
scrimped. Most of his men lived better than he did. Fool man. Siuan pushed her way into the tent without
calling.
144
THE GATHERING STORM
If he was foolish enough to change without going behind the screen, then he was foolish enough to be
seen doing it.
He was seated at his desk working by the light of a solitary candle. He appeared to be reading scout
reports.
Siuan sniffed, letting the tent flaps droop closed behind her. Not a single lamp! That man! "You will ruin
your eyes reading by such poor light, Gareth Bryne."
"I have read by the light of a single candle for most of my life, Siuan," he said, turning over a page and
not looking up. "And I'll have you know that my eyesight is the same as it was when I was a boy."
"Oh?" Siuan said. "So you're saying that your eyesight was poor to begin with?"
Bryne grinned, but continued his reading. Siuan sniffed again, loudly, to make sure he heard. Then she
wove a globe of light and sent it hovering over beside his desk. Fool man. She wouldn't have him going
so blind he fell in battle to an attack he didn't see. After setting the light beside his head—perhaps too
close for him to be comfortable with it without scooting over—she walked over to pluck clothing off the
drying line she'd strung across the center of the tent. He'd voiced no complaint about her using the inside
of his tent for drying laundry, and hadn't taken it down. That was a disappointment. She'd been
anticipating chastising him for that.
"A woman from the camp outside approached me today," Bryne said, shifting his chair to the side, then
picking up another stack of pages. "She offered me laundry service. She's organizing a group of
washwomen in the camp, and she claimed that she could do my wash more quickly and effectively than a
single distracted maidservant could."
Siuan froze, sparing a glance at Bryne, who was looking through his papers. His strong jaw was lit on the
left by the even white light of her globe and on the right by the flickering orange candlelight. Some men
were made weak by age, others were made to look tired or slovenly. Bryne had simply become
distinguished, like a pillar, crafted by a master stonemason, then left to the elements. Age hadn't reduced
Bryne's effectiveness or his strength. It had simply given him character, dusting his temples with silver,
creasing his firm face with lines of wisdom.
"And what did you tell this woman?" she asked.
Bryne turned a page over. "I told her that I was satisfied with my laundry." He looked up at her. "I have to
say, Siuan, that I'm surprised. I had assumed that an Aes Sedai would know little of work such as this, but
CLEAN SHIRTS
145
rarely have my uniforms known such a perfect combination of stiffness and comfort. You are to be
commended."
Siuan turned away from him, hiding her blush. Fool man! She had caused kings to kneel before her! She
manipulated the Aes Sedai and planned for the deliverance of mankind itself! And he complimented her
on her laundering skills?
The thing was, from Bryne, that was an honest and meaningful compliment. He didn't look down on
washwomen, or on runner boys. He treated all with equity. A person didn't gain stature in Gareth Bryne's
eyes by being a king or queen; one gained stature by keeping to one's oaths and doing one's duty. To him,
a compliment on laundry well done was as meaningful as a medal awarded to a soldier who had stood his
ground before the enemy.
She glanced back at him. He was still watching her. Fool man! She hurriedly took down another of his
shirts and began folding it.
"You never did explain to my satisfaction why you broke your oath," he said.
Siuan froze, looking at the back wall of the tent, splayed with shadows of the still-hanging laundry. "I
thought that you understood," she said, continuing to fold. "I had important information for the Aes Sedai
in Sali-dar. Besides, I couldn't very well let Logain run about free, now could I? I had to find him and get
him to Salidar."
"Those are excuses," Bryne said. "Oh, I know that they're true. But you're Aes Sedai. You can cite four
facts and use them to hide the real truth as effectively as another might use lies."
"So you claim I'm a liar?" she demanded.
"No," he said. "Just an oathbreaker."
She glanced at him, eyes widening. Why, she'd let him hear the rough side of. ...
She hesitated. He was watching her, bathed in the glow of the two lights, eyes thoughtful. Reserved, but
not accusatory. "That question drove me here, you know," he said. "It's why I hunted you all that way. It's
why I finally swore to these rebel Aes Sedai, though I had little wish to be pulled into yet another war at
Tar Valon. I did it all because I needed to understand. I had to know. Why? Why did the woman with
those eyes— those passionate, haunting eyes—break her oath?"
"I told you I was going to return to you and fulfill that oath," Siuan said, turning away from him and
snapping a shirt in front of her to un-wrinkle it.
146
THE GATHERING STORM
"Another excuse," he said softly. "Another answer from an Aes Sedai. Will I ever have the full truth from
you, Siuan Sanche? Has anyone ever had it?" He sighed, and she heard papers rustle, the candle's light
flickering in the faint stir of his movements as he turned back to his reports.
"When I was still an Accepted in the White Tower," Siuan said softly, "I was one of four people present
when a Foretelling announced the imminent birth of the Dragon Reborn on the slopes of Dragonmount."
His rustling froze.
"One of the two others present," Siuan continued, "died on the spot. The other died soon after. I'm
confident that she—the Amyrlin Seat herself—was murdered by the Black Ajah. Yes, it exists. If you tell
anyone that I admitted that fact, I'll have your tongue.
"Anyway, before she died, the Amyrlin sent Aes Sedai out hunting the Dragon. One by one, those women
vanished. The Blacks must have tortured their names out of Tamra before killing her. She would not have
given up those names easily. I still shiver, sometimes, thinking about what she must have gone through.
"Soon, there were just the two of us left who knew. Moiraine and me. We weren't supposed to hear the
Foretelling. We were just Accepted, in the room by happenstance. I believe that Tamra was somehow
able to withhold our names from the Blacks, for if she hadn't, we'd have undoubtedly been murdered like
the others.
"That left two of us. The only two in all of the world who knew what was coming. At least, the only two
who served the Light. And so I did what I had to, Gareth Bryne. I dedicated my life to preparing for the
Dragon's coming. I swore to see us through the Last Battle. To do whatever was necessary—whatever
was necessary—to bear the burden I had been given. There was only one other person I knew I could
trust, and she is now dead."
Siuan turned, meeting his eyes across the tent. A breeze rippled the walls and fluttered the candle, but
Bryne sat still, watching her.
"So you see, Gareth Bryne," she said. "I had to delay fulfilling my oath to you because of other oaths. I
swore to see this through to the end, and the Dragon has not yet met his destiny at Shayol Ghul. A
person's oaths must follow their order of importance. When I swore to you, I did not promise to serve you
immediately. I was intentionally careful on that point. You will call it an Aes Sedai wordplay. I would
call it something else."
CLEAN SHIRTS
147
"Which is?" he asked.
"Doing what was necessary to protect you, your lands and your people, Gareth Bryne. You blame me for
the loss of a barn and some cows. Well, then I suggest that you consider the cost to your people should
the Dragon Reborn fail. Sometimes, prices must be paid so that a more important duty can be served. I
would expect a soldier to understand that."
"You should have told me," he said, still meeting her eyes. "You should have explained who you were."
"What?" Siuan asked. "Would you have believed me?"
He hesitated.
"Besides," she said frankly, "I didn't trust you. Our previous meeting had not been particularly . . .
amicable, as I recall. Could I have taken that risk, Gareth Bryne, on a man I did not know? Could I have
given him control over the secrets I alone know, secrets that needed to be passed on to the new Amyrlin
Seat? Should I have spared even a moment when the entire world was wearing the hangman's noose?"
She held those eyes, demanding an answer.
"No," he finally admitted. "Burn me, Siuan, but no. You shouldn't have waited. You shouldn't have made
that oath in the first place!"
"You should have been more careful to listen," she said, finally breaking his gaze with a sniff. "I suggest
that if you swear someone into service in the future, you be careful to stipulate a time frame for that
service."
Bryne grunted and Siuan whipped the final shirt off of the drying line, causing it to shake, making a
blurry shadow on the back wall of the tent.
"Well," Bryne said, "I told myself I'd only hold you to work as long as it took me to get that answer. Now
I know. I would say that—"
"Stop!" Siuan snapped, spinning on him and pointing.
"But—"
"Don't say it," she threatened. "I'll gag you and leave you hanging in the air until sundown tomorrow.
Don't think that I won't."
Bryne sat, silent.
"I'm not finished with you yet, Gareth Bryne." She whipped the shirt in her hands, then folded it. "I shall
tell you when I am."
"Light, woman," he muttered, almost under his breath. "If I'd known you were Aes Sedai before chasing
you to Salidar . . . if I'd known what I was doing. . . ."
"What?" she demanded. "You wouldn't have hunted me down?"
148
THE GATHERING STORM
"Of course I would have," he said indignantly. "I'd have just been more careful, and perhaps come better
prepared. I went off hunting boars with a rabbit knife instead of a spear!"
Siuan set the folded shirt on top of the others, then picked up the stack. She gave him a suffering look. "I
will do my best to pretend that you didn't just compare me to a boar, Bryne. Kindly be a little more
cautious with your tongue. Otherwise, you'll find yourself without a maidservant, and you'll have to let
those ladies in the camp take up your laundry."
He gave her a bemused look. Then he just laughed. She failed at keeping her own grin to herself. Well,
after that exchange, he would know who was in control of this association.
But . . . Light! Why had she told him about the Foretelling? She'd rarely told anyone about that! As she
packed the shirts in his trunk, she glanced at Bryne, who was still shaking his head and chuckling.
When other oaths no longer have a hold on me, she thought. When I'm certain the Dragon Reborn is doing what he
is supposed to, perhaps there will be time. For once, I'm actually starting to look forward to being done with this
quest. How remarkable.
"You should be bedding down, Siuan," Bryne said.
"It's early yet," she said.
"Yes, but it's sunset. Every third day you bed down uncharacteristically early, wearing that odd ring you
have hidden between the cushions of your pallet." He turned over a paper on his desk. "Please give my
kind regards to the Amyrlin."
She turned toward him, slack-jawed. He couldn't know about Tel'aran'rhiod, could he? She caught him
smiling in satisfaction. Well, perhaps he didn't know about Tel'aran'rhiod, but he'd obviously guessed that
the ring and her schedule had something to do with communicating with Egwene. Sly. He glanced over
the top of his papers at her as she passed, and his eyes had a twinkle to them.
"Insufferable man," she muttered, sitting down on her pallet and dismissing her globe of light. Then she
sheepishly fished out the ring ter'an-greal and put it around her neck, turned her back on him and lay
down, trying to will herself to sleep. She made certain to rise early every third day so that she'd be tired at
night. She wished she could put herself to sleep as easily as Egwene did.
Insufferable . . . insufferable man! She'd have to do something to get back at him. Mice in the bedsheets.
That would be a good payback.
CLEAN SHIRTS
149
She lay for too long a time, but eventually coaxed herself to sleep, smiling faintly to herself at the
prospect of an apt revenge. She awoke in Tel'aran'rhiod wearing nothing but a scandalous, barely
covering slip. She yelped, immediately replacing that—through concentration—with a green dress.
Green? Why green? She made it blue. Light! How was it that Egwene was always so good at controlling
things in Tel'aran'rbiod while Siuan could barely keep her clothing from switching at every idle thought?
It must have something to do with the fact that Siuan had to wear this inferior ter'angreal copy, which
didn't work as well as the original. It made her look insubstantial to others who saw her.
She was standing in the middle of the Aes Sedai camp, surrounded by tents. The flaps of any given
structure would be open one moment, then closed the next. The sky was troubled by a violent, yet
strangely silent, storm. Curious, but things were often strange in Tel'aran'rhiod. She closed her eyes,
willing herself to appear in the study of the Mistress of Novices in the White Tower. When she opened
her eyes, she was there. A small, wood-paneled room with a stout desk and a table for strappings.
She would have liked to have the original ring, but that was carefully kept by the Sitters. She should be
thankful for even a small catch, as her father had been fond of saying. She could have been left without
any of the rings. The Sitters thought this one had been with Leane when she'd been captured.
Was Leane all right? At any moment, the false Amyrlin could opt for execution. Siuan knew all too well
how spiteful Elaida could be; she still felt a stab of sorrow when she thought of poor Alric. Had Elaida
felt a single moment of guilt over murdering a Warder in cold blood, before the woman she was tearing
down had been properly deposed?
"A sword, Siuan?" Egwene's voice suddenly asked. "That's novel."
Siuan looked down, shocked to find herself holding a bloody sword, likely intended for Elaida's heart.
She made it vanish, then regarded Egwene. The girl looked the part of the Amyrlin, wearing that
magnificent golden gown, her brown hair in an intricate arrangement set with pearls. Her face wasn't
ageless yet, but Egwene was getting very good at the calm serenity of an Aes Sedai. In fact, she seemed to
have grown measurably better at that since her capture.
"You look well, Mother," Siuan said.
"Thank you," Egwene said, with a faint smile. She showed more of herself around Siuan than she did the
others. They both knew how heavily Egwene had relied on Siuan's teaching to get where she was.
150
THE GATHERING STORM
Though she'd probably have made it there anyway, Siuan admitted. Just not quite as quickly.
Egwene glanced at the toom around them, then grimaced faintly. "I realize I suggested this location last
time, but I have seen enough of this room lately. I will meet you in the novices' dining hall." She
vanished.
An odd choice, but very unlikely to conceal unwanted ears. Siuan and Egwene weren't the only ones who
used Tel'aran'rhiod for clandestine meetings. Siuan closed her eyes—she didn't need to, but it seemed to
help her—and imagined the novices' dining hall, with its rows of benches and its bare walls. When she
opened her eyes, she was there, as was Egwene. The Amyrlin settled back and a majestic stuffed chair
appeared behind her, catching her gracefully as she sat. Siuan didn't trust herself to do anything so
complicated; she simply sat down on one of the benches.
"I think we may want to start meeting more frequently, Mother," Siuan said, tapping the table as she
ordered her thoughts.
"Oh?" Egwene asked, sitting up straighter. "Has something happened?"
"Several somethings," Siuan said, "and I'm afraid a few of them smell as ripe as last week's catch." Tell
me.
"One of the Forsaken was in our camp," Siuan said. She hadn't wanted to think about that too frequently.
The knowledge made her skin crawl.
"Is anyone dead?" Egwene asked, voice calm though her eyes looked to be steel.
"No, bless the Light," Siuan said. "Other than those you already know about. Romanda made the
connection. Egwene, the creature had been with us for some time, in hiding."
"Who?"
"Delana Mosalaine," Siuan said. "Or her serving woman, Halima. Most likely Halima, as I've known
Delana for a great long time." Egwene's eyes widened just faintly. Halima had waited on Egwene.
Egwene had been touched and served by one of the Forsaken. She took the news well. Like an Amyrlin.
"But Anaiya was killed by a man," Egwene said. "Were those murders different?"
"No. Anaiya wasn't murdered by a man, but by a woman wielding saidin. It must have been—it's the only
thing that makes sense."
CLEAN SHIRTS
151
Egwene nodded slowly. Anything was possible where the Dark One was concerned. Siuan smiled in
satisfaction and pride. This girl was learning to be Amyrlin. Light, she was Amyrlin!
"There's more?" Egwene asked.
"Not much more on this topic," Siuan said. "They got away from us, unfortunately. Disappeared the very
day we discovered them."
"What warned them, I wonder."
"Well, that involves one of the other things I need to tell you." Siuan took a deep breath. The worst of it
was out, but this next part wouldn't be much easier to stomach. "There was a meeting of the Hall that day,
attended by Delana. In that meeting, an Asha'man announced that he could sense a man channeling in the
camp. We think that is what informed her. It wasn't until after Delana fled that we made the connection. It
was that same Asha'man who told us that his fellow had encountered a woman who could channel
saidin."
"And why was an Asha'man in the camp?" Egwene asked coolly.
"He'd been sent as an envoy," Siuan explained. "From the Dragon Reborn. Mother, it appears some of the
men who follow al'Thor have bonded Aes Sedai."
Egwene blinked a single time. "Yes. I had heard rumors of this. I had hoped that they were exaggerated.
Did this Asha'man say who gave Rand permission to commit such an atrocity?"
"He's the Dragon Reborn," Siuan said, grimacing. "I don't think he feels he needs permission. But, in his
defense, it appears he didn't know it was happening. The women his men bonded were sent by Elaida to
destroy the Black Tower."
"Yes." Egwene finally showed a sliver of emotion. "So the rumors are accurate. All too accurate." Her
beautiful dress retained its shape, but bled to a deep brown in color, like Aiel clothing. Egwene didn't
seem to notice the change. "Will Elaida's reign of disasters never cease?"
Siuan just shook her head. "We've been offered forty-seven Asha'man to bond as restitution, of sorts, for
the women al'Thor's men bonded. Hardly a fair trade, but the Hall decided to accept the offer
nonetheless."
"As well they should have," Egwene said. "We shall have to deal with the Dragon's foolishness at a later
date. Perhaps his men acted without his direct orders, but Rand must take responsibility. Men. Bonding
women!"
"They claim saidin is cleansed," Siuan said.
Egwene raised an eyebrow, but did not object. "Yes," she said, "I
152
THE GATHERING STORM
suppose that might be a reasonable possibility. We will need further confirmation, of course. But the taint
arrived when all seemed won; why should it not leave when all seems to be approaching pure madness?"
"I hadn't considered it that way," Siuan said. "Well, what should we do, Mother?"
"Let the Hall deal with it," Egwene said. "It seems they have matters in hand."
"They'd be better at keeping them in hand if you'd return, Mother."
"Eventually," Egwene said. She sat back and laced her fingers in her lap, somehow looking far older than
her face would suggest. "My work is here, for now. You'll have to see that the Hall does as it should. I
have great faith in you."
"And it's appreciated, Mother," Siuan said, keeping her frustration inside. "But I'm losing control of them.
Lelaine has begun to set herself up as a second Amyrlin—and is doing it by pretending to support you.
She's seen that appearing to act in your name serves herself."
Egwene pursed her lips. "I would have thought Romanda would take the advantage, considering that she
discovered the Forsaken."
"I think she assumed she'd hold the advantage," Siuan said, "but she spent too long basking in her victory.
Lelaine has, with no small effort, become the most devoted servant of the Amyrlin who has ever lived.
You would think that you and she were the closest of confidants, to hear her speak! She's appropriated me
as her attendant, and each time the Hall meets it's 'Egwene wanted this' and 'Remember what Egwene said
when we did that.'"
"Clever," Egwene said.
"Brilliant," Siuan said, sighing. "But we knew one of them was eventually going to claw her way ahead of
the other. I keep diverting her toward Romanda, but I don't know how long I can keep her distracted."
"Do your best," Egwene said. "But don't worry if Lelaine refuses to be diverted."
Siuan frowned. "But she's usurping your place!"
"By building upon it," Egwene said, smiling. She finally noticed that her dress had changed to brown, for
she switched it back in a heartbeat, not breaking the conversation. "Lelaine's gambit will only succeed if I
fail to return. She is using me as a source of authority. When I return, she'll have no choice but to accept
my leadership. She'll have spent all of her effort building me up."
"And if you don't return, Mother?" Siuan asked softly.
CLEAN SHIRTS
153
"Then it will be better for the Aes Sedai to have a strong leader," Egwene said. "If Lelaine has been the
one to secure that strength, then so be it."
"She has good reason to make certain you don't return, you know," Siuan said. "At the very least, she's
betting against you."
"Well, she can't very well be blamed for that." Egwene let down her guard enough to show a grimace. "I'd
be tempted to bet against myself, if I were on the outside. You'll simply have to deal with her, Siuan. I
can't let myself be distracted. Not when I see so much potential for success here, and not when there is an
even greater price for failure."
Siuan knew that stubborn set to Egwene's jaw. There would be no persuading her tonight. Siuan would
simply have to try again during their next meeting.
All of it—the cleansing, the Asha'man, the crumbling of the Tower— made her shiver uncomfortably.
Though she'd been preparing for these days for most of her life, it was still unsettling to have them finally
arrive. "The Last Battle really is coming," Siuan said, mostly to herself.
"It is," Egwene said, voice solemn.
"And I'm going to face it with barely a lick of my former power," Siuan said, grimacing.
"Well, perhaps we can get you an angreal once the Tower is whole again," Egwene said. "We'll be using
everything we have when we ride against the Shadow."
Siuan smiled. "That would be nice, but not necessary. I'm just grumbling out of habit, suppose. I'm
actually learning to deal with my . . . new situation. It's not so difficult to stomach, now that I see that it
has some advantages."
Egwene frowned, as if trying to figure out what advantages there could be in lessened power. Finally, she
shook her head. "Elayne once mentioned a room to me in the Tower, filled with objects of power. I
assume it really exists?"
"Of course," Siuan said. "The basement storeroom. It's in the second level of the basement, on the
northeast side. Little room with a plain wooden door, but you can't miss it. It's the only one in the hallway
that is locked."
Egwene nodded to herself. "Well, I can't defeat Elaida through brute force. Still, it is nice to know of that.
Is there anything else remarkable to report?"
"Not at the moment, Mother," Siuan said.
154
THE GATHERING STORM
"Then return and get some sleep." Egwene hesitated. "And next time, we'll meet in two days. Here in the
novices' dining hall, though we may want to begin meeting out in the city. I don't trust this place. If there
was a Forsaken in our camp, I'd bet half my father's inn that there's one spying on the White Tower too."
Siuan nodded. "Very well." She closed her eyes, and soon found herself blinking awake back in Bryne's
tent. The candle was out, and she could hear Bryne breathing quietly from his pallet on the other side of
the tent. She sat up and looked across at him, though it was too dark to see anything more than shadows.
Strangely, after talking about Forsaken and Asha'man, the sturdy general's presence comforted her.
Is there anything else remarkable to report, Egwene? Siuan thought idly, rising to change out of her dress
behind the screen and put on her sleeping gown. / think I might be in love. Is that remarkable enough? To her, it
seemed stranger than the taint being cleansed or a woman channeling saidin.
Shaking her head, she tucked the dream ter'angreal back in its hiding place, then snuggled down beneath
her blankets.
She'd forgo the mice, just this once.
CHAPTER 9
Leaving Maiden
A cool spring breeze tickled Perrin's face. Such a breeze should have carried with it the scents of pollen
and crisp morning dew, of dirt overturned by sprouts pushing into the light, of new life and an earth
reborn.
This breeze carried with it only the scents of blood and death.
Perrin turned his back to the breeze, knelt down and inspected the wagon's wheels. The vehicle was a
sturdy construction of hickory, wood darkened with age. It appeared to be in good repair, but Perrin had
learned to be careful when dealing with equipment from Maiden. The Shaido didn't scorn wagons and
oxen as they did horses, but they—like all Aiel— believed in traveling light. They hadn't maintained the
wagons or carts, and Perrin had found more than one hidden flaw during his inspection.
"Next!" he bellowed as he checked the first wheel's hub. The comment was directed at the crowd of
people waiting to speak with him.
"My Lord," a voice said. It was deep and rough, like wood scraping against wood. Gerard Arganda, First
Captain of Ghealdan. His scent was of well-oiled armor. "I must press the issue of our departure. Allow
me to ride ahead with Her Majesty."
The "Her Majesty" he referred to was Alliandre, Queen of Ghealdan. Perrin continued working with the
wheel; he wasn't as familiar with carpentry as he was with smithing, but his father had taught each of his
sons
155
156
THE GATHERING STORM
to recognize signs of trouble in a wagon. Better to fix the problem before leaving than to be stranded
halfway to the destination. Perrin ran his fingers across the smooth, brown hickory. The grain was clearly
visible, and he tested for cracks with questing fingers, searching each point of stress. All four wheels
looked good.
"My Lord?" Arganda asked.
"We all march together," Perrin said. "That's my order, Arganda. I won't have the refugees thinking that
we're abandoning them."
Refugees. There were over a hundred thousand of those to care for. A hundred thousand! Light, that was
far more than lived in the entire Two Rivers. And Perrin was in charge of feeding every one of them.
Wagons. Many men didn't understand the importance of a good wagon. He lay down on his back,
preparing to inspect the axles, and that gave him a view of the overcast sky, partially blocked by Maiden's
nearby city wall.
The city was large for one this far north in Altara. It was almost more of a fortress than a city, with
daunting walls and towers. Until the day before, the land around this city had been home to the Shaido
Aiel, but they were gone now, many killed, others fled, their captives freed by an alliance between
Perrin's forces and the Seanchan.
The Shaido had left him two things: a scent of blood on the air and a hundred thousand refugees to care
for. Though he was happy to give them their freedom, his goal in liberating Maiden had been far
different: the rescue of Faile.
Another Aiel group had been advancing on his position, but they'd slowed, then camped, and were no
longer rushing toward Maiden. Perhaps they'd been warned by Shaido fleeing the battle that they had a
large army before them, one that had defeated the Shaido despite their channelers. It seemed this new
group behind Perrin had as little desire to engage him as he had to engage them.
That gave him time. A little bit, at least.
Arganda was still watching. The captain wore his polished breastplate and had his slotted helmet under
his arm. The squat man wasn't a puffed-up fluff of an officer, but a common man who had risen through
the ranks. He fought well and did as instructed. Usually.
"I'm not going to bend on this, Arganda," Perrin said, pulling himself along the damp ground beneath the
wagon.
"Could we at least use gateways instead?" Arganda asked, kneeling down, graying hair—shorn
short—nearly brushing the ground as he peeked under the wagon.
LEAVING M A L D E N
157
"The Asha'man are near dead from fatigue," Perrin snapped. "You know that."
"They're too tired for a large gateway," Arganda said, "but maybe they could send a small group. My lady
is exhausted from her captivity! Surely you don't mean for her to march!"
"The refugees are tired too," Perrin said. "Alliandre can have a horse to ride, but she's leaving when the
rest of us do. Light send that's soon."
Arganda sighed, but nodded. He stood up as Perrin ran fingers along the axle. He could tell stress in wood
with a glance, but he preferred touch. Touch was more reliable. There was always a crack or a splintering
where wood weakened, and you could feel it near to breaking. Wood was reliable like that.
Unlike men. Unlike himself.
He gritted his teeth. He didn't want to think about that. He had to keep working, had to keep doing
something to distract himself. He liked to work. He'd been given far too few opportunities for it lately.
"Next!" he said, voice echoing against the bottom of the wagon.
"My Lord, we should attack!" a boisterous voice declared from beside the vehicle.
Perrin thumped his head back against the well-trampled grass, closing his eyes. Bertain Gallenne, Lord
Captain of the Winged Guards, was to Mayene what Arganda was to Ghealdan. Aside from that single
similarity, the two captains were about as different as men could be. Perrin could see Bertain's large,
beautifully worked boots, with clasps shaped like hawks, from beneath the wagon.
"My Lord," Bertain continued. "A fine charge from the Winged Guard would scatter that Aiel rabble, of
this I'm certain. Why, we easily dealt with the Aiel here in the city!"
"We had the Seanchan, then," Perrin said, finishing with the rear axle and wriggling his way to the front
to check the other one. He wore his old, stained coat. Faile would chastise him for that. He was supposed
to present himself as a lord. But would she really expect him to wear a fine coat if he was going to spend
an hour lying in the muddy grass, looking at the bottoms of wagons?
Faile wouldn't want him to be in the muddy grass in the first place. Perrin hesitated, hand on the front
axle, thinking of her raven hair and distinctive Saldaean nose. She held the sum total of his love. She was
everything to him.
He had succeeded—he'd saved her. So why did he feel as if things
158
THE GATHERING STORM
were nearly as bad as they had been? He should rejoice, he should be ecstatic, should be relieved. He'd
worried so much about her during her captivity. And yet now, with her safety secure, everything still felt
wrong. Somehow. In ways he couldn't explain.
Light! Would nothing just work as it was supposed to? He reached down for his pocket, wanting to finger
the knotted cord he'd once carried there. But he'd thrown that away. Stop it! he thought. She's back. We
can go back to the way it was before. Can't we?
"Yes, well," Bertain continued, "I suppose the departure of the Seanchan could be a problem in an assault.
But that Aiel group camped out there is smaller than what we already defeated. And if you are worried,
you could send word to that Seanchan general and bring her back. Surely she would wish to fight
alongside us again!"
Perrin forced himself back to the moment. His own foolish problems were irrelevant; right now, he
needed to get these wagons moving. The front axle was good. He turned and pushed himself out from
underneath the wagon.
Bertain was of medium height, though the three plumes rising from his helmet made him look taller. He
had on his red eye patch—Perrin didn't know where he'd lost the eye—and his armor gleamed. He seemed
excited, as if he thought Perrin's silence meant they would attack.
Perrin stood, dusting off his plain brown trousers. "We're leaving," he said, then held up a hand to forbid
further argument. "We defeated the septs here, but we had them dosed with forkroot and there were
damane on our side. We're tired, wounded, and we have Faile back. There's no further reason to fight. We
run."
Bertain didn't look satisfied, but he nodded and turned away, stomping across the muddy ground toward
where his men sat their mounts. Perrin looked at the small group of people who waited in a cluster around
the wagon to speak with him. Once, this kind of business had frustrated Perrin. It seemed like pointless
work, as many of the supplicants already knew what his answer would be.
But they needed to hear those answers from him, and Perrin had come to understand the importance of
that. Besides, their questions helped distract him from the strange tension he felt at having rescued Faile.
He walked toward the next wagon in line, his small entourage following him. There were a good fifty of
the wagons set in a long caravan train. The first ones were loaded with salvage from Maiden; the middle
ones were in the process of being treated likewise, and he had only two
LEAVING MALDEN
159
left to inspect. He had wanted to be well out of Maiden before sunset. That would probably carry him far
enough away to be safe.
Unless these new Shaido decided to give chase in revenge. With the number of people Perrin had to
move, a blind man would be able to track them.
The sun drooped toward the horizon, a shining spot behind the cloud cover. Light, but this was a mess,
with the chaos of organizing refugees and separate army camps. Getting away was supposed to be the
easy part!
The Shaido camp was a disaster. His people had scavenged and packed many of the abandoned tents.
Now cleared, the ground around the city was trampled weeds and mud, littered with refuse. The Shaido,
being Aiel, had preferred to camp outside the city walls, rather than within them. They were a strange
people, no denying that. Who would spurn a nice bed, not to mention a better military position, to stay
outside in tents?
Aiel despised cities, though. Most of the buildings had either been burned during the initial Shaido assault
or looted for riches. Doors beaten down, windows shattered, possessions abandoned on the streets and
trampled by gai'shain running back and forth to fetch water.
People still scurried about like insects, moving through the city gates and around the former Shaido camp,
grabbing what they could to stow it for transport. They'd have to leave the wagons behind once they
decided to Travel—Grady couldn't make a gateway big enough to pass a wagon through—but for now,
the vehicles would be a big help. There were also a good number of oxen; someone else was inspecting
those, making certain they were fit to pull the wagons. The Shaido had let many of the city's horses run
off. A shame, that. But you made use of what you had.
Perrin reached the next wagon, beginning his inspection with the vehicle's long tongue, to which oxen
would be harnessed. "Next!"
"My Lord," said a scratchy voice, "I believe that I am next."
Perrin glanced over at the speaker: Sebban Balwer, his secretary. The man had a dry, pinched face and a
perpetual stoop that made him look almost like a roosting vulture. Though his coat and breeches were
clean, it seemed to Perrin that they should shed puffs of dust each time Balwer stepped. He smelled
musty, like an old book.
"Balwer," Perrin said, running his fingers over the tongue, then checking the harness straps, "I thought
you were speaking with the captives."
"I have, indeed, been busy with my work there," Balwer said. "However, I grew curious. Did you have to
let the Seanchan take all of the captive Shaido channelers with them?"
160
THE GATHERING STORM
Perrin glanced at the musty secretary. The Wise Ones who could channel had been knocked unconscious
by forkroot; they'd been given over to the Seanchan while still unconscious, to do with as they pleased.
The decision had not made Perrin popular with the Aiel among his allies, but he would not have those
channelers running about to take revenge on him.
"I don't see why I would want them," he said to Balwer.
"Well, my Lord, there is much of great interest to learn. For instance, it appears that many of the Shaido
are ashamed of their clan's behavior. The Wise Ones themselves were at odds. Also, they have had
dealings with some very curious individuals who offered them objects of power from the Age of Legends.
Whoever they were, they could make gateways."
"Forsaken," Perrin said with a shrug, stooping down on one knee to check the right front wheel. "I doubt
we'll figure out which ones. Probably had a disguise on."
From the corner of his eyes, he saw Balwer purse his lips at that comment.
"You disagree?" Perrin asked.
"No, my Lord," he said. "The 'objects' the Shaido were given are very suspect, by my estimation. The
Aiel were duped, though for what reason, I cannot yet fathom. However, if we had more time to search
the city. ..."
Light! Was every person in the camp going to ask him for something they knew they couldn't have? He
got down on the ground to check the back of the wheel hub. Something about it bothered him. "We
already know that the Forsaken oppose us, Balwer. They won't rightly welcome Rand in with open arms
to seal them away again, or whatever it is he's going to do."
Blasted colors, showing Rand in his mind's eye! He pushed those away again. They appeared whenever
he thought of Rand or Mat, bringing visions of them.
"Anyway," Perrin continued, "I don't see what you need me to do. We'll take the Shaido gai'shain with us.
The Maidens captured their fair share. You can interrogate them. But we're leaving this place."
"Yes, my Lord," Balwer said. "It's just a shame we lost those Wise Ones. My experience has been that
they are those among the Aiel with the most. . . understanding."
"The Seanchan wanted them," Perrin said. "So they got them. I wouldn't let Edarra bully me on the point,
and what is done is done. What do you expect of me, Balwer?"
"Perhaps a message could be sent," Balwer said, "to ask some questions
LEAVING MAIDEN
161
of the Wise Ones when they awake. I. . . ." He stopped, then stooped down to glance at Perrin. "My Lord,
this is rather distracting. Couldn't we find someone else to inspect the wagons?"
"Everyone else is either too tired or too busy," Perrin said. "I want most of the refugees waiting in the
camps to move when we give the marching order. And most of our soldiers are scavenging the city for
supplies—each handful of grain they find will be needed. Half the stuff's spoiled anyway. I can't help with
that work, since I need to be where people can find me." He'd accepted that, cross though it made him.
"Yes, my Lord," Balwer said. "But surely you can be somewhere accessible without crawling under
wagons."
"It's work I can do while people talk to me," Perrin said. "You don't need my hands, just my tongue. And
that tongue is telling you to forget the Aiel."
"But—"
"There is nothing more I can do, Balwer," Perrin said firmly, glancing up at him through the spokes of the
wheel. "We're heading north. I'm done with the Shaido; they can burn for all I care."
Balwer pursed his thin lips again, and he smelled just slightly of annoyance. "Of course, my Lord," he
said, giving a quick bow. Then he withdrew.
Perrin squirmed out and stood up, nodding to a young woman who stood in a dirty dress and worn shoes
at the side of the line of wagons. "Go fetch Lyncon," he said. "Tell him to have a look at this wheel hub. I
think the bearing's been stripped, and the blasted thing looks ready to roll right off."
The young woman nodded, running away. Lyncon was a master carpenter who had been unfortunate
enough to be visiting relatives in Cairhien when the Shaido attacked. He'd had the will beaten nearly out
of him. Perhaps he should have been the one to inspect the wagons, but with that haunted look in his eyes,
Perrin wasn't sure how far he trusted the man to do a proper inspection. He seemed good enough at fixing
problems when they were pointed out to him, though.
And the truth was, as long as Perrin kept moving, he felt he was doing something, making progress. Not
thinking about other issues. Wagons were easy to fix. They weren't like people, not at all.
Perrin turned, glancing across the empty camp, pocked with firepits and discarded rags. Faile was walking
back toward the city; she'd been organizing some of her followers to scout the area. She was striking.
162
THE GATHERING STORM
Beautiful. That beauty wasn't just in her face or her lean figure, it was in how easily she commanded
people, how quickly she always knew what to do. She was clever in a way Perrin never had been.
He wasn't stupid; he just liked to think about things. But he'd never been good with people, not like Mat
or Rand. Faile had shown him that he didn't need to be good with people, or even with women, as long as
he could make one person understand him. He didn't have to be good at talking to anyone else as long as
he could talk to her.
But now he couldn't find the words to say. He worried about what had happened to her during her
captivity, but the possibilities didn't bother him. They made him angry, but none of what had happened
was her fault. You did what you had to to survive. He respected her for her strength.
Light! he thought. I'm thinking again! Need to keep working. "Next!" he bellowed, stooping down to
continue his inspection of the wagon.
"If I'd seen your face and nothing else, lad," a hearty voice said, "I'd assume that we'd lost this battle."
Perrin turned with surprise. He hadn't realized that Tarn al'Thor was one of those waiting to speak with
him. That crowd had thinned, but there were still some messengers and attendants. At the back, the
blocky, solid sheepherder leaned on his quarterstaff as he waited. His hair had all gone to silver. Perrin
could remember a time when it had been a deep black. Back when Perrin had just been a boy, before he'd
known a hammer or a forge.
Perrin's fingers reached down, touching the hammer at his waist. He'd chosen it over the axe. It had been
the right decision, but he'd still lost control of himself in the battle for Maiden. Was that what bothered
him?
Or was it how much he'd enjoyed the killing?
"What do you need, Tarn?" he asked.
"I'm only bringing a report, my Lord," Tarn said. "The Two Rivers men are organized for the march, each
man with two tents on his back, just in case. We couldn't use water from the city, on account of the
forkroot, so I sent some lads to the aqueduct to fill some barrels there. We could use a wagon to bring
them back."
"Done," Perrin said, smiling. Finally, someone who did things that were needed without having to ask
first! "Tell the Two Rivers men that I intend to have them back home as soon as possible. The moment
Grady and Neald are strong enough to make a gateway. That could be a while, though."
LEAVING MALDEN
163
"That's appreciated, my Lord," Tam said. It felt so strange for him to use a title. "Can I speak to you alone
for a moment, though?"
Perrin nodded, noticing that Lyncon was coming—his limp was distinctive—to look at the wagon. Perrin
moved with Tam away from the group of attendants and guards, walking into the shadow of Maiden's
wall. Moss grew green against the base of the massive blocks making up the fortification; it was strange
that the moss was far brighter than the trampled, muddied weeds under their feet. Nothing but moss
seemed green this spring.
"What is it, Tam?" Perrin asked as soon as they were far enough away.
Tam rubbed his face; there was gray stubble coming in. Perrin had pushed his men hard these last few
days, and there hadn't been time for shaving. Tam wore a simple blue wool coat, and the thick cloth was
probably a welcome shield against the mountain breeze.
"The lads are wondering, Perrin," Tam said, a little less formal now that they were alone. "Did you mean
what you said about giving up on Manetheren?"
"Aye," Perrin said. "That banner has been nothing but trouble since it first came out. The Seanchan, and
everyone else, might as well know. I'm no king."
"You have a queen who's sworn you as her liege."
He considered Tarn's words, working out the best response. Once that kind of behavior had made people
think he was slow of thought. Now people assumed his thoughtfulness meant that Perrin was crafty and
keen minded. What a difference a few fancy words in front of your name made!
"I think you're right, in what you did," Tam said, surprisingly. "Calling the Two Rivers Manetheren
would not only have antagonized the Seanchan, but the Queen of Andor herself. It would imply that you
meant to hold more than just the Two Rivers, that perhaps you wanted to conquer all that Manetheren
once held."
Perrin shook his head. "I don't mean to conquer anything, Tam. Light! I don't mean to hold what people
say I've got. The sooner that Elayne takes her throne and sends a proper lord out to the Two Rivers, the
better. We can be done with all of this Lord Perrin business and things can go back to normal."
"And Queen Alliandre?" Tam asked.
"She can swear to Elayne instead," Perrin said stubbornly. "Or maybe
164
THE GATHERING STORM
directly to Rand. He seems to like scooping up kingdoms. Like a child playing a game of wobbles."
Tarn smelled concerned. Troubled. Perrin looked away. Things should be simpler. They should be.
"What?"
"I just thought you were over this," Tarn said.
"Nothing has changed from the days before Faile was taken," Perrin said. "I still don't like that wolf head
banner either. I think maybe it's time to take that one down too."
"The men believe in that banner, Perrin, lad," Tam said quietly. He had a soft way about him, but that
made you listen when he spoke. Of course, he also usually spoke sense. "I pulled you aside because I
wanted to warn you. If you provide a chance for the lads to return to the Two Rivers, some will go. But
not many. I've heard most swear that they'll follow you to Shayol Ghul. They know the Last Battle is
coming—who couldn't know that, with all of the signs lately? They don't intend to be left behind." He
hesitated. "And neither do I, I reckon." He smelled of determination.
"We'll see," Perrin said, frowning. "We'll see."
He sent Tam off with orders to requisition a wagon and take it for those water barrels. The soldiers would
listen; Tam was Perrin's First Captain, though that seemed backward to Perrin. He didn't know much of
the man's past, but Tam had fought in the Aiel War, long ago; he'd held a sword before Perrin had been
born. And now he followed Perrin's orders.
They all did. And they wanted to keep doing so! Hadn't they learned? He rested back against the wall, not
walking back to his attendants, standing in the shadow.
Now that he seized upon it, he realized that was a part of what was bothering him. Not the whole of it, but
some, tied in with what was troubling him. Even now that Faile had returned.
He hadn't been a good leader lately. He'd never been a model one, of course, not even when Faile had
been there to guide him. But during her absence, he'd been worse. Far worse. He'd ignored his orders
from Rand, ignored everything, all to get her back.
But what else was a man supposed to do? His wife had been kidnapped!
He'd saved her. But in doing so, he'd abandoned everyone else. And because of him, men were dead.
Good men. Men who had trusted in him.
Standing in that shadow, he remembered a moment—only a day past—when an ally had fallen to Aiel
arrows, his heart poisoned by
LEAVING M A L D E N
165
Masema. Aram had been a friend, one that Perrin had discarded in his quest to save Faile. Aram had
deserved better.
/ should never have let that Tinker pick up a sword, he thought, but he didn't want to deal with this
problem right now. He couldn't. There was too much to do. He moved away from the wall, planning to
inspect the last wagon in line.
"Next!" he barked as he began again.
Aravine Carnel stepped forward. The Amadician woman no longer wore her gai'shain robes; instead she
had on a simple light green dress, not clean, that had been pulled out of the salvage. She was plump but
her face still bore a haggard cast from her days as a captive. There was a determination about her. She
was surprisingly good at organization, and Perrin suspected she was of noble heritage. She had the scent
of it about her: self-confidence, an ease giving commands. It was a wonder those things had survived her
captivity.
As he knelt down to look at the first wheel, he figured it was odd that Faile had chosen Aravine to
supervise the refugees. Why not one of the youths from Cha Faile? Those dandies could be annoying, but
they'd shown a surprising measure of competence.
"My Lord," Aravine said, her practiced curtsy another indication of her background. "I have finished
organizing the people for departure."
"So soon?" Perrin asked, looking up from the wheel.
"It was not so difficult as we expected, my Lord. I commanded them to gather by nationality, then by
town of birth. Not surprisingly, the Cairhienin form the largest bulk of them, followed by Altarans, then
Amadicians, with some smattering of others. A few Domani, some Taraboners, the occasional
Borderlander or Tairen."
"How many can stand a day or two of marching without a ride in the wagons?"
"Most of them, my Lord," she said. "The sick and elderly were expelled from the city when the Shaido
took it. The people here are accustomed to being worked hard. They're exhausted, Lord, but none too
eager to be waiting here with those other Shaido camped not half a day's march away."
"All right," Perrin said. "Start them marching immediately."
"Immediately?" Aravine asked with surprise.
He nodded. "I want them on that road, marching northward, as soon as you can get them going. I'll send
Alliandre and her guard to lead the
166
THE GATHERING STORM
way." That ought to keep Arganda from complaining, and it would get the refugees out of the way. The
Maidens would be far better, and far more efficient, at gathering supplies alone. The scavenging was
nearly finished anyway. His people would have to survive on the road for only a few weeks. After that,
they could jump via gateway to someplace more secure. Andor, perhaps, or Cairhien.
Those Shaido behind had him anxious. They could decide to attack at any time. Better to get away and
remove the temptation.
Aravine curtsied and hurried away to make preparations, and Perrin thanked the Light for someone else
who didn't see a need to question or second-guess him. He sent a boy to inform Arganda of the impending
march, then finished his inspection of the wagon. After that, he stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers.
"Next!" he said.
Nobody stepped forward. The only people remaining around him were guards, messenger boys and a few
wagoneers waiting to hitch up their oxen and move the wagons off for loading. The Maidens had made a
large pile of foodstuffs and supplies in the middle of the former camp, and Perrin could make out Faile
there working to organize it.
Perrin sent the ring of attendants with him over to help her, then found himself alone. With nothing to do.
Just what he'd wanted to avoid.
The wind blew past again, carrying that awful stench of death. It also carried memories. The fury of the
battle, the passion and thrill of each swing. Aiel were excellent warriors—the best the land knew. Each
exchange had been close, and Perrin had earned his share of cuts and bruises, though those had since been
Healed.
Fighting the Aiel had made him feel alive. Each one he'd slain had been an expert with the spears; each
one could have killed him. But he'd won. During those moments of fighting, he'd felt a driving passion.
The passion of finally doing something. After two months of waiting, each blow had meant a step closer
to finding Faile.
No more talking. No more planning. He'd found purpose. And now it was gone.
He felt hollow. It was like . . . like the time when his father had promised him something special as a gift
for Winternight. Perrin had waited months, eager, doing his chores to earn the unknown gift. When he'd
finally received the small wooden horse, he'd been excited for a moment. But the next day, he'd been
shockingly melancholy. Not because of the gift, but because there had no longer been anything to strive
for. The
LEAVING MALDEN
167
excitement was gone, and only then had he realized how much more precious he'd found that anticipation
than the gift itself.
Soon after that he'd begun visiting Master Luhhan's forge, eventually becoming his apprentice.
He was glad to have Faile back. He rejoiced. And yet, now what was there for him? These blasted men
saw him as their leader. Some even thought of him as their king! He'd never asked for that. He'd had them
put away the banners every time they put them out, up until Faile had persuaded him that using them
would be an advantage. He still didn't believe that the wolfhead banner belonged there, flapping
insolently above his camp.
But could he take it down? The men did look to it. He could smell pride on them every time they passed
it. He couldn't turn them away. Rand would need their aid—he'd need everyone's aid—at the Last Battle.
The Last Battle. Could a man like him, a man who didn't want to be in charge, lead these forces to the
most important moment in their lives?
The colors swirled, showing him Rand, sitting in what appeared to be a stone Tairen home. Perrin's old
friend had a dark cast to his expression, like a man troubled by weighty thoughts. Even sitting like that,
Rand looked regal. He was what a king was supposed to be, with that rich red coat, that noble bearing.
Perrin was just a blacksmith.
He sighed, shaking his head and dispelling the image. He needed to seek out Rand. He could feel
something tugging at him, pulling him.
Rand needed him. That had to be his focus now.
CHAPTER 10
The Last of the Tabac
Rodel Ituralde puffed quietly on his pipe, smoke curling from it like the sinuous coils of a snake. The
smoke tendrils wrapped around themselves, pooling at the ceiling above him, then leaking out through
cracks in the roof of the ramshackle shed. The boards in the walls were warped from age, opening slits to
the outside, and the gray wood was cracked and splintering. A brazier burned in the corner and winds
whistled through the cracks in the walls. Ituralde faintly worried those winds would blow over the entire
building.
He sat on a stool, several maps on the table before him. At the corner of the table, his tabac pouch
weighed down a wrinkled piece of paper. The small square was weathered and folded from being carried
in his inside coat pocket.
"Well?" Rajabi asked. Thick of neck and determined of attitude, he was brown-eyed, with a wide nose
and a bulbous chin. He was completely bald now, and faintly resembled a large boulder. He tended to act
like a boulder, too. It could take a lot of work to get him rolling, but once you did, he was bloody hard to
stop. He had been one of the first to join Ituralde's cause, for all the fact that he had been poised to rebel
against the king just a short time before.
It had been nearly two weeks since Ituraldes victory at Darluna. He'd extended himself far for that
victory. Perhaps too far. Ah, Alsalam,
168
THE LAST OF THE TABAC
169
he thought. / hope this was all worth it, old friend. I hope you haven't just gone mad. Rajabi might be a boulder, but
the Seanchan are an avalanche, and we've brought them thundering down upon us.
"What now?" Rajabi prodded.
"We wait," Ituralde said. Light, but he hated waiting. "Then we fight. Or maybe we run again. I haven't
made up my mind yet."
"The Taraboners—"
"Won't come," Ituralde said.
"They promised!"
"They did." Ituralde had gone to them himself, had roused them, had asked them to fight the Seanchan
just one more time. They'd yelled and cheered, but had not followed with any haste. They would drag
their feet. He'd gotten them to fight "one last time" on half a dozen different occasions now. They could
see where this war was going, and he could no longer depend on them. If he'd ever been able to in the first
place.
"Bloody cowards," Rajabi muttered. "Light burn them, then! We'll do it alone. We have before."
Ituralde took a long, contemplative puff on his pipe. He'd chosen to finally use the Two Rivers tabac. This
pipeful was the last in his store; he'd been saving it for months, now. Good flavor. Best there was.
He studied his maps again, holding a smaller one up before him. He could use better maps, that was
certain. "This new Seanchan general," Ituralde said, "is marshaling over three hundred thousand men,
with a good two hundred damane."
"We've beat large forces before. Look what we did at Darluna! You crushed them, Rodel!"
And doing so had required every bit of craftiness, skill and luck Ituralde could muster. Even then, he'd
lost well over half his men. Now he ran, limping, before this second, larger force of Seanchan.
This time, they weren't making any mistakes. The Seanchan didn't rely solely on their raken. His men had
intercepted several foot scouts, and that meant dozens hadn't been caught. This time, the Seanchan knew
Ituralde's true numbers and his true location.
His enemies were done being herded and goaded; instead they hunted him, relentlessly, avoiding his
traps. Ituralde had planned to retreat deeper and deeper into Arad Doman; that would favor his forces and
stretch the Seanchan supply lines. He'd figured he could keep it up for another four or five months. But
those plans were useless now; they'd been made before Ituralde had discovered there was an entire bloody
170
THE GATHERING STORM
army of Aiel running about Arad Doman. If the reports were to be believed—and reports about Aiel were
often exaggerations, so he wasn't sure how much to believe—there were upwards of a hundred thousand
of them holding large sections of the north, Bandar Eban included.
A hundred thousand Aiel. That was as good as two hundred thousand Domani troops. Perhaps more.
Ituralde well remembered the Blood Snow twenty years ago, when it had seemed he'd lost ten men for
each Aiel who fell.
He was trapped, a walnut crushed between two stones. The best he'd been able to do was retreat here, to
this abandoned stedding. That would give him an edge against the Seanchan. But only a small one. The
Seanchan had a force six times the size of his own, and the greenest of commanders knew that fighting
those odds was suicide.
"Have you ever seen a master juggler, Rajabi?" Ituralde asked, studying the map.
From the corner of his eye, Ituralde saw the bull-like man frown in confusion. "I've seen gleemen who—"
"No, not a gleeman. A master."
Rajabi shook his head.
Ituralde puffed in thought before speaking. "I did, once. He was the court bard of Caemlyn. Spry fellow,
with a wit that might better have belonged in a common room, for all the way he was decorated. Bards
don't often juggle; but this fellow didn't mind the request. He liked juggling to please the young
Daughter-Heir, so I understand."
He removed the pipe from his mouth, tapping down the tabac.
"Rodel," Rajabi said. "The Seanchan. . . ."
Rodel held up a finger, situating his pipe before continuing. "The bard started by juggling three balls.
Then he asked us if we thought he could do another. We cheered him on. He went to four, then five, then
six. With each ball he added, our applause grew greater, and he always asked if we thought he could do
another. Of course we said yes.
"Seven, eight, nine. Soon he had ten balls going in the air, flying in a pattern so complex that I couldn't
track them. He had to strain to keep them going; he kept having to reach down and grab balls that he
nearly missed. He was too lost in concentration to ask us if he should add another, but the crowd called
for it. Eleven! Go for eleven! And so, his assistant tossed another ball into the mess."
Ituralde puffed.
"He dropped them?" Rajabi asked.
THE LAST OF THE TABAC
171
Rodel shook his head. "That last 'ball' wasn't actually a ball at all. It was some kind of Illuminator's trick;
once it got halfway to the bard, it flashed and gave off a sudden burst of light and smoke. By the time our
vision cleared, the bard was gone, and ten balls were lined up on the floor. When I looked around, I found
him sitting at one of the tables with the rest of the diners, drinking a cup of wine and flirting with Lord
Finndal's wife."
Poor Rajabi looked completely dumbfounded. He liked his answers neat and straightforward. Ituralde
usually felt the same way, but these days—with their unnaturally overcast skies and sense of perpetual
gloom—made him philosophic.
He reached out and took the worn, folded sheet of paper off the table from beneath his tabac pouch. He
handed it to Rajabi.
" 'Strike hard against the Seanchan,' " Rajabi read. " 'Push them away, force them into their boats and
back across their bloody ocean. I'm counting on you, old friend. King Alsalam.' " Rajabi lowered the
letter. "I know of his orders, Rodel. I didn't come into this because of him. I came because of you."
"Yes, but / fight because of him," Ituralde said. He was a king's man; he always would be. He stood up,
tapping out his tabac and grinding the embers beneath the heel of his boot. He set the pipe aside and took
the letter from Rajabi, then walked to the door.
He needed to make a decision. Stay and fight, or flee for a worse location, but gain a little more time?
The shack groaned and wind shook the trees as Ituralde stepped outside into the overcast morning. The
shed wasn't Ogier-built, of course. It was too flimsy for that. This stedding had been abandoned for a long
time. His men camped amid the trees. Hardly the best location for a war camp, but one made soup with
the spices on hand; the stedding was far too useful to pass up. Another man might have fled to a city and
hidden behind its walls, but here in these trees, the One Power was useless. Negating the Seanchan
damane was better than walls, no matter how high.
We have to stay, Ituralde thought, watching his men work, digging in, erecting a palisade. He hated the
thought of cutting down trees in a stedding. He'd known a few Ogier in his time, and respected them.
These massive oaks probably held some lingering strength from the days when the Ogier had lived here.
Cutting them down was a crime. But you did what you had to. Running might gain him more time, but it
might just as easily lose him time. He had a few days here before the Seanchan hit
172
THE GATHERING STORM
him. If he could dig in well, he might force them into a siege. The stedding would make them hesitant,
and the forests would work to the advantage of Ituralde's smaller force.
He hated letting himself get pinned in. That was probably why he'd considered for so long, even though,
deep down, he'd already known that it was time to stop running. The Seanchan had finally caught him.
He continued along the ranks, nodding to working men, letting himself be seen. He had forty thousand
troops left, which was a marvel, considering the odds they had faced. These men should have deserted.
But they'd seen him win impossible battle after impossible battle, tossing ball after ball into the air to
greater and greater applause. They thought he was unstoppable. They didn't understand that when one
tossed more balls into the air, it wasn't just the show that became more spectacular.
The fall at the end grew more spectacular as well.
He kept his dark thoughts to himself as he and Rajabi continued through the forested camp, inspecting the
palisade. It was progressing nicely, the men setting thick tree trunks into freshly dug troughs. After his
inspection, Ituralde nodded to himself. "We stay, Rajabi. Pass the word."
"Some of the others say that staying here means dying for sure," Rajabi responded.
"They're wrong," Ituralde said.
"But—"
"Nothing is sure, Rajabi," Ituralde said. "Fill these trees inside the palisade with archers; they'll be almost
as effective as towers. We'll need to set up a killing field outside. Cut down as many trees around the
palisade here as possible, then set the logs inside as barriers, a second line of retreat. We'll hold strong.
Perhaps I'm wrong about those Taraboners, and they'll ride to aid us. Or maybe the king has a hidden
army stashed away to defend us. Blood and ashes, maybe we'll fight them off here on our own. We'll see
how much they like fighting without their damane. We'll survive."
Rajabi straightened visibly, growing confident. That was the kind of talk Ituralde knew he expected. Like
the others, Rajabi trusted the Little Wolf. They didn't believe he could fail.
Ituralde knew better. But if you were going to die, you did it with dignity. The young Ituralde had often
dreamed of wars, of the glory of battle. The old Ituralde knew there was no such thing as glory to be had
in battle. But there was honor.
"My Lord Ituralde!" a runner called, trotting along the inside of the
THE LAST OF THE TABAC
173
unfinished palisade wall. He was a boy, young enough that the Seanchan would probably let him live.
Otherwise Ituralde would have sent the lad, and those like him, away.
"Yes?" Ituralde asked, turning. Rajabi stood like a small mountain at his side.
"A man," the boy said, puffing. "The scouts caught him walking into the sledding."
"Come to fight for us?" Ituralde said. It was not uncommon for an army to draw recruits. There were
always those tempted by the lure of glory, or at least by the lure of steady meals.
"No, my Lord," the boy said, puffing. "He says he's come to see you."
"Seanchan?" Rajabi barked.
The boy shook his head. "No. But he's got nice clothes."
Some lord's messenger, then. Domani, or perhaps a Taraboner renegade. Whoever he was, he could
hardly make their situation worse. "And he came alone?"
"Yes, sir."
Brave man. "Bring him, then," Ituralde said.
"Where will you receive him, my Lord?"
"What?" Ituralde snapped. "You think I'm some fancy merchant with a palace? The field here will do. Go
get him, but take your time getting back. And make sure he's properly guarded."
The boy nodded and ran off. Ituralde waved over some soldiers and sent them running for Wakeda and
the other officers. Shimron was dead, burned to char by a damane's fireball. Too bad, that. Ituralde would
rather have kept him than many of the others.
Most of the officers arrived before the stranger. Lanky Ankaer. One-eyed Wakeda, who might otherwise
have been a handsome man. Squat Melarned. Youthful Lidrin, who continued to follow Ituralde after his
father's death.
"What is this I hear?" Wakeda asked, folding his arms as he strode up. "We're staying in this death trap?
Rodel, we don't have the troops to resist. If they come, we'll be trapped here."
"You're right," Ituralde said simply.
Wakeda turned to the others, then back to Ituralde, a little of his irritation deflated in the face of Ituralde's
frank answer. "Well . . . why don't we run, then?" He blustered a lot less now than he had just months ago,
when Ituralde had first begun this campaign.
"I won't give you sugar and lies," Ituralde said, looking at them each
174
THE GATHERING STORM
in turn. "We're in a bad shape. But we'll be in a worse shape if we run. We've got no more holes to hide
in. These trees will work to our advantage, and we can fortify. The stedding will negate the damam, and
that alone is worth the price of staying. We fight here."
Ankaer nodded, seeming to understand the gravity of the situation. "We have to trust him, Wakeda. He's
led us right so far."
Wakeda nodded. "I suppose."
Bloody fools. Four months ago, half of them would have killed him on sight for staying loyal to the king.
Now they thought he could do the impossible. It was a pity; he was beginning to think he could have
brought them back to Alsalam as loyalists. "All right," he said, pointing at various spots along their
fortification. "Here's what we're going to do to shore up the weak points. I want ..."
He trailed off as he saw a group approaching through the clearing. The messenger boy, accompanied by a
squad of soldiers, escorting a man in red and gold.
Something about the newcomer drew Ituralde's eyes. Perhaps it was the height; the young man was as tall
as an Aiel, and fair of hair like them as well. But no Aiel dressed in a fine red coat with sharp golden
embroidery. There was a sword at his side, and the way the newcomer walked made Ituralde think he
knew how to use it. He strode with firm, determined steps, as if he thought the soldiers around him an
honor guard. A lord, then, and one accustomed to command. Why had he come in person, rather than
sending a messenger?
The young lord stopped a short length in front of Ituralde and his generals, looking at each of them in
turn, then focused on Ituralde. "Rodel Ituralde?" he asked. What accent was that? Andoran?
"Yes," Ituralde said cautiously.
The young man nodded. "Bashere's description was accurate. You appear to be boxing yourself in, here.
Do you honestly expect to hold against the Seanchan army? They are many times your size, and your
Tarabon allies do not appear . . . eager to join you in your defense."
He had good intelligence, whoever he was. "I am not in the habit of discussing my defenses with
strangers." Ituralde studied the young lord. He was fit—lean and hard, though it was difficult to tell with
the coat on. He favored his right hand, and on closer inspection, Ituralde noticed that the left hand was
missing. Both of his forearms had some kind of strange red and gold tattoo on them.
THE LAST OF THE TABAC
175
Those eyes. Those were eyes which had seen death a number of times. Not just a young lord. A young
general. Ituralde narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The stranger met his eyes. "I am Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn. And I need you. You and your army."
Several of those with Ituralde cursed, and Ituralde glanced at them. Wakeda was incredulous, Rajabi
surprised, young Lidrin openly dismissive.
Ituralde looked back at the newcomer. The Dragon Reborn? This youth? He supposed it could be
possible. Most rumors agreed that the Dragon Reborn was a young man with red hair. But, then, rumors
also claimed he was ten feet tall, and still others said his eyes glowed in dim light. And then there were
the stories of him appearing in the sky at Falme. Blood and ashes, Ituralde didn't know if he believed that
the Dragon had been reborn in the first place!
"I haven't time to argue," the stranger said, face impassive. He seemed . . . older than he looked. He didn't
appear to care that he was surrounded by armed soldiers. In fact, his coming alone ... it should have
seemed like such a foolish act. Instead it made Ituralde thoughtful. Only one such as the Dragon Reborn
himself could stride into a war camp like this, completely alone, and expect to be obeyed.
Burn him, if that fact by itself didn't make Ituralde want to believe him. Either this man was who he
claimed to be or he was an utter lunatic.
"If we go outside the stedding, I will prove I can channel," the stranger said. "That should count for
something. Give me leave, and I'll have ten thousand Aiel here and several Aes Sedai, all of whom will
swear to you that I am who I say."
The rumors also said Aiel followed the Dragon Reborn. The men around Ituralde coughed and glanced
about uncomfortably. Many had been Dragonsworn before coming to Ituralde. With the right words, this
Rand al'Thor—or whoever he was—might be able turn Ituralde's camp against itself.
"Even if we assume that I believe you," Ituralde said carefully, "I don't see that it matters. I have a war to
fight. You have other business to concern you, I assume."
"You are my concern," al'Thor said, eyes so hard that they seemed ready to burrow into Ituralde's skull
and search about inside for anything of use. "You must make peace with the Seanchan. This war gains us
176
THE GATHERING STORM
nothing. I want you up on the Borderlands; I can't spare men to guard the Blight, and the Borderlanders
themselves have abandoned their duties."
"I have orders," Ituralde said, shaking his head. Wait. He wouldn't do as this youth asked if he didn't have
orders. Except . . . those eyes. Alsalam had had eyes like that, when they were both younger. Eyes that
demanded obedience.
"Your orders," al'Thor said. "They are from the king? That is why you throw yourselves against the
Seanchan as you do?"
Ituralde nodded.
"I've heard of you, Rodel Ituralde," al'Thor said. "Men I trust, men I respect, trust and respect you. Rather
than fleeing and hiding, you hunker down here to fight a battle you know will kill you. All because of
your loyalty to your king. I commend that. But it is time to turn away and fight a battle that means
something. One that means everything. Come with me, and I'll give you the throne of Arad Doman."
Ituralde stood up sharply, alert. "After commending my loyalty, you expect me to unseat my own king!"
"Your king is dead," al'Thor said. "Either that, or his mind has been melted like wax. More and more, I
think Graendal has him. I see her touch on the chaos in this land. Whatever orders you have likely came
from her. Why she wants you fighting the Seanchan, I haven't yet been able to determine."
Ituralde snorted. "You speak of one of the Forsaken as if you've had her as a dinner guest."
Al'Thor met his eyes again. "I remember each of them—their faces, their mannerisms, the way they speak
and act—as if I've known them for a thousand years. I remember them better than I remember my own
childhood, sometimes. I am the Dragon Reborn."
Ituralde blinked. Burn me, he thought. / believe him. Bloody ashes! "Let's . . . let's see this proof of yours."
There were objections, of course, mostly from Lidrin, who thought it too dangerous. The others were
shaken. Here was the man they'd sworn themselves to without ever meeting him. There seemed to be a ...
a force about al'Thor, drawing Ituralde in, demanding that he do as asked. Well, he'd see the proof, first.
They sent runners for horses to ride out of the stedding, but al'Thor spoke as if Ituralde was his man
already. "Perhaps Alsalam lives," al'Thor said as they waited. "If so, I can see that you would not want his
throne.
THE LAST OF THE TABAC
177
Would you like Amadicia? I will need someone to rule there and keep an eye on the Seanchan. The
Whitecloaks fight there now; I'm not sure if I'll be able to stop that conflict before the Last Battle."
The Last Battle. Light! "I won't take it if you kill the king there," Ituralde said. "If the Whitecloaks have
already killed him, or if the Seanchan have, then perhaps."
King! What was he saying? Burn you! he thought to himself. At least wait until the proof is given before
agreeing to accept thrones! There was a way about this man, the way he discussed events like the Last
Battle—events that mankind had been fearing for thousands of years—as if they were items on the daily
camp report.
Soldiers arrived with their horses, and Ituralde mounted, as did al'Thor, Wakeda, Rajabi, Ankaer,
Melarned, Lidrin and a half-dozen lesser officers.
"I've brought a large number of Aiel into your lands," Rand al'Thor said as they began to ride. "I had
hoped to use them to restore order, but they are taking longer than I'd wished. I'm planning to secure the
members of the merchant council; perhaps once I have them in hand, I'll be able to improve the stability
of the area. What do you think?"
Ituralde didn't know what to think. Securing the merchant council? That sounded like kidnapping them.
What had Ituralde gotten himself into? "It could work," he found himself saying. "Light, it's probably the
best plan, all things considered."
Al'Thor nodded, looking forward as they passed out of the palisade and moved out along a trail toward
the edge of the stedding. "I'll have to secure the Borderlands, anyway. I will care for your homeland. Burn
those Borderlanders! What are they up to? No. No, not yet. They can wait. No, he'll do. He can hold it. I'll
send him with Asha'man." Suddenly, al'Thor turned to Ituralde. "What could you do if I gave you a
hundred men who could channel?"
"Madmen?"
"No, most of them are stable," al'Thor said, taking no apparent offense. "Whatever madness they incurred
before I cleansed the taint is still there—removing the taint didn't heal them—but few of them were far
gone. And they won't get worse, now that saidin is clean."
Saidin? Clean? If Ituralde had his own men who could channel. . . . His own damane, in a way. Ituralde
scratched his chin. It was coming at him quickly—but, then, a general had to be able to react quickly. "I
could use them well," he said. "Very well."
178
THE GATHERING STORM
"Good," al'Thor said. They had left the stedding; the air felt different. "You've got a lot of land to watch,
but many of the channelers I'll give you can spin gateways."
"Gateways?" Ituralde asked.
Al'Thor glanced at him, then seemed to grit his teeth, closing his eyes, shaking as if nauseated. Ituralde
sat upright, suddenly alert, hand on his sword. Poison? Was the man wounded?
But no, al'Thor opened his eyes, and there seemed to be a look of ecstasy in those depths. He turned,
waving a hand, and a line of light split the air in front of him. Men around Ituralde cursed, backing up. It
was one thing for a man to claim he could channel; it was another to see him do so in front of you!
"That's a gateway," al'Thor said as the line of light turned around, opening a large black hole in the air.
"Depending on the Asha'man's strength, a gateway can be made wide enough to drive wagons through.
You can travel nearly anywhere with speed, sometimes instantly, depending on circumstances. With a
few trained Asha'man, your army could dine in Caemlyn in the morning, then have lunch in Tanchico a
few hours later."
Ituralde rubbed his chin. "Well now, that's a thing to see. A thing to see indeed." If this man spoke
truthfully, and these gateways really did work. . . . "With this I could clear the Seanchan out of Tarabon,
and maybe off the land entirely!"
"No," al'Thor snapped. "We make peace with them. From what my scouts say, it's going to be hard
enough to bring them to agreement without promising them your head. I won't rile them further. There is
no time for squabbling. We have more important matters to be about."
"Nothing is more important than my homeland," Ituralde said. "Even if those orders are forged, I know
Alsalam. He would agree with me. We won't stand for foreign troops on the soil of Arad Doman."
"A promise, then," al'Thor said. "I will see the Seanchan out of Arad Doman. I promise you this. But we
don't fight them away any further than that. In exchange, you go to the Borderlands and protect against an
invasion there. Hold back the Trollocs if they come, and lend me some of your officers to help secure
Arad Doman. It will be easier to restore order if the people see that their own lords are working with me."
Ituralde considered, though he knew already what his answer would be. That gateway could spirit his men
away from this death trap. With Aiel on his side—with the Dragon Reborn as an ally—he really did have
THE LAST OF THE TABAC
a chance of keeping Arad Doman secure. An honorable death was a good thing. But the ability to keep on
fighting with honor . . . that was a prize far more precious.
"Agreed," Ituralde said, holding out a hand.
AlThor took it. "Go break camp. You're to be in Saldaea by nightfall."
CHAPTER 11
The Death of Adrin
/think he should be beaten again, said Lerian, moving her fingers in the complex motions of Maiden
handtalk. He is like a child, and when a child touches something dangerous, the child is beaten. If a child hurts
himself because he was not taught properly to stay away from knives, then the shame is upon his parents.
The previous beating did not seem to do any good, Surial replied. He accepted it like a man, not a child, but did not
change his actions.
Then we must try again, Lerian replied.
Aviendha dropped her rock into the pile by the watchpost, then turned around. She did not acknowledge
the Maidens who watched the way into the camp, and they did not acknowledge her. Speaking to her
while she was being punished would only heighten her shame, and her spear-sisters would not do that.
She also didn't indicate that she understood their conversation. While nobody expected a former Maiden
to forget handtalk, it was best to be unobtrusive. The handtalk belonged to the Maidens.
Aviendha selected a large stone from a second pile, then began to walk back into camp. If the Maidens
continued their conversation, she could not tell, as she could no longer see their hands. But their
discussion lingered with her. They were angered that Rand al'Thor had gone to meet with the general
Rodel Ituralde without guards. It was not the first
180
THE DEATH OF ADRIN
181
time he had acted so foolishly, and yet he seemed unwilling—or unable— to learn the proper way. Each
time he put himself in danger without protection, he insulted the Maidens as surely as if he had slapped
each one in the face.
Aviendha probably had some small toh toward her spear-sisters. Teaching Rand al'Thor of Aiel ways had
been her task, and she had quite obviously failed. Unfortunately, she had a much greater toh toward the
Wise Ones, even if she still didn't know the reason. Her lesser duty to her spear-sisters would have to wait
for an appropriate time.
Her arms ached from carrying rocks. They were smooth and heavy; she had been required to dig them out
of the river beside the manor house. Only her time spent with Elayne—when she had been forced to bathe
in water—had given her the strength to walk into that river. In that, she had not shamed herself. And at
least this river was a small one—wetlanders might inaccurately call it a stream. A stream was a tiny
mountain runoff in which you could dip your hands or fill a waterskin. Anything too large to step across
was definitely a river.
The day was overcast, as usual, and the camp was subdued. Men who had bustled just days before—when
the Aiel had arrived—were more lethargic now. The camp wasn't by any means unkempt; Davram
Bashere was too careful a commander to allow that, wetlander though he was. However, the men did
move more slowly. She had heard some of them complain that the dark sky was dampening their moods.
How strange wetlanders were! What did the weather have to do with one's mood? She could understand
being displeased that no raids were approaching, or that a hunt had gone poorly. But because there were
clouds in the sky? Was shade so poorly appreciated here?
She shook her head, continuing on her way. She had chosen stones which would strain her muscles. To do
otherwise would have been to make light of her punishment, and she wouldn't do that—although each
step pained her honor. She had to cross through the entire camp, in full sight, doing work that was
useless! She would rather have been naked before them all outside of the sweat tent. She would rather
have run a thousand laps, or been beaten so hard that she couldn't walk.
She reached the side of the manor house and deposited her stone with a hidden sigh of relief. Two
wetlander soldiers from Bashere's army stood guarding the door into the manor, a counterpart to the two
Maidens at the other end of Aviendha's trek. As she stooped and picked up a large stone from a second
pile by the wall, she overheard them speaking.
182
THE GATHERING STORM
"Burn me, but it's hot," one of the men complained.
"Hot?" the other replied, glancing at the overcast sky. "You're jesting."
The first guard waved his hand at himself, puffing out and sweating. "How can you not feel that?"
"You must have a fever or something."
The first guard shook his head. "I just don't like the heat, that's all."
Aviendha picked up her rock and began to walk back across the green. After some contemplation, she had
determined that being a wet-lander required one common attribute: a fondness for complaining. During
her first months in the wetlands, she had considered this shameful. Did that guard not care that he was
losing face in front of his fellow by exposing his weakness?
They were all like that, even Elayne. If you listened to her talk about the aches, sicknesses and
frustrations of her pregnancy, you would almost think she was approaching death! However, if
complaining was something that Elayne did, then Aviendha refused to accept it as a sign of weakness.
Her first-sister would not act in such a shameful way.
Therefore, there had to be some hidden honor in it. Perhaps the wet-landers exposed their weaknesses to
their companions as a means of offering friendship and trust. If your friends knew of your weaknesses, it
would give them an advantage should you dance the spears with them. Or, perhaps, the complaining was
a wetlander way of showing humility, much as the gai'shain showed honor by being subservient.
She had asked Elayne about her theories and had received only a fond laugh in return. Was it some aspect
of wetlander society that she was forbidden to discuss with outsiders, then? Had Elayne laughed because
Aviendha had figured out something she was not meant to?
Either way, it was certainly a way to show honor, and that satisfied Aviendha. If only her own problems
with the Wise Ones were as simple! It was expected that the wetlanders would act in erratic, unnatural
ways. But what was she to do when Wise Ones behaved so strangely?
She was growing frustrated—not with the Wise Ones, but with herself. She was strong and brave. Not as
brave as some others, of course; she could only wish to be as bold as Elayne. Still, Aviendha could think
of only a few problems which she hadn't been able to solve with the application of spears, the One Power
or her wits. Yet she had failed utterly at deciphering her current predicament.
She reached the other side of the camp and deposited her stone, then brushed off her hands. The Maidens
stood motionless and contemplative.
THE DEATH OF ADRIN
183
Aviendha moved to the other pile and picked up an oblong rock with a jagged edge. It was three
handspans wide, and the smooth surface threatened to slip in her ringers. She had to shift it several times
before getting a good purchase. She headed back across the trampled winter thatch, past Saldaean tents,
toward the manor house.
Elayne would say that Aviendha hadn't thought the problem through. Elayne was calm and thoughtful
when other people were tense. Aviendha sometimes grew frustrated with how much her first-sister liked
to talk before committing to action. I need to be more like her. I need to remember that I'm not a Maiden of the
Spear any longer. I can't charge in with weapon held high.
She needed to approach problems as Elayne did. That was the only way she was going to get her honor
back, and only then could claim Rand al'Thor and make him hers as much as he was Elayne's or Min's.
She could feel him through the bond; he was in his room, but was not sleeping. He pushed himself hard
and slept too little.
The stone slipped in her fingers, and she nearly stumbled as she rebalanced her weight, hefting it in tired
arms. Some of Bashere's soldiers walked past, bemused expressions on their faces, and Aviendha felt
herself blush. Although they might not know that she was being punished, she was shamed before them.
How would Elayne reason out this situation? The Wise Ones were angry at Aviendha for not "learning
quickly enough." And yet they didn't teach her. They just asked those questions. Questions about what
she thought of their situation, questions about Rand al'Thor or about the way Rhuarc had handled meeting
with the Car'a'carn.
Aviendha couldn't help feeling that the questions were tests. Was she answering incorrectly? If so, why
didn't they instruct her in the proper responses?
The Wise Ones didn't think she was soft. What was left? What would Elayne say? Aviendha wished for
her spears back so that she could stab something. Attack, test herself against another, work out her anger.
No, she thought forcefully. / am going to learn to do this as a Wise One. I will find honor again!
She reached the manor and dropped her rock. She wiped her brow; ignoring heat and cold as Elayne had
taught her didn't keep her from sweating when she worked her body this hard.
"Adrin?" one door guard asked his companion. "Light, you don't look well. Truly."
Aviendha glanced toward the doorway into the manor. The guard
184
THE GATHERING STORM
who had been complaining about the heat was sagging against the doorway, hand on his forehead. He
really didn't look well. Aviendha embraced saidar. She wasn't the best at Healing, but perhaps she
could—
The man reached up suddenly, scratching at the skin of his temples. His eyes rolled up in his head and his
fingers tore gashes in his flesh. Only, instead of blood, the wounds spat out a black charcoal-like
substance. Aviendha could feel the intense heat even from a distance.
The other guard gaped in horror as his friend ripped lines of black fire down the sides of his head. A
blackish tar oozed out, boiling and hissing. The man's clothing burst into flames and his flesh shriveled
from the heat.
He didn't utter a sound.
Aviendha shrugged off her shock, immediately weaving Air in a simple pattern to pull the unaffected
guard to safety. His friend was now just a pulsing mound of black tar which, in places, sprouted
blackened bones. There was no skull. The heat was so strong that Aviendha had to back away, pulling the
guard with her.
"We . . . we're being attacked!" the man whispered. "Channelers!"
"No," Aviendha said, "this is something far more evil. Run for help!"
He seemed too shocked to move, but she shoved him into motion and he began to move. The tar itself
didn't seem to be spreading, which was a blessing, but it had already ignited the doorframe of the manor.
It could have the entire building in flames before anyone inside was aware of the danger.
Aviendha wove Air and Water, intending to extinguish the flame. However, her weaves frazzled and
wavered when they got near the fire. They didn't unweave, but this fire somehow resisted them.
She took another step back from the awesome, burning intensity. Her brow prickled with sweat, and she
had to raise her arm to shade her face from the heat. She could barely make out the black char at the
center as it began to glow with the deep red and white of extremely hot coals. Soon, only hints of the
black remained. The fire spread across the front wall of the building. Aviendha heard screams from
inside.
Aviendha shook herself, then growled and wove Earth and Air, pulling chunks of the ground up around
her. She hurled these at the fire, seeking to smother it. Her weave could not draw the heat out, but that did
not stop her from using weaves to cast items into the fire. Chunks of grass-covered earth sizzled and
hissed, wan blades flashing to ash before the incredible heat. Aviendha continued to work, sweating from
both the exertion and the temperature.
THE DEATH OF ADRIN
185
In the distance, she heard people—perhaps the guard among them— calling for buckets.
Buckets? Of course! In the Three-fold Land, water was far too valuable to use in fighting fires. Dirt or
sand was used. But here, they would use water. Aviendha took several steps backward, searching out the
curling river that ran beside the manor. She could just barely make out its surface, reflecting the dancing
reds and oranges of the flames. Already, the entire front of the manor was aflame! She felt channeling
from inside— Aes Sedai or Wise Ones. Hopefully, they would escape out of the back of the building. The
fire had engulfed the inner hallway, and the rooms off of it had no doors out.
Aviendha wove a massive column of Air and Water, pulling a spout of crystalline liquid from the river
and drawing it toward her. The column of water undulated in the air like the creature on Rand's banner, a
glassy serpentine dragon that slammed against the flames. Steam hissed outward in an explosion, washing
over her.
The heat was powerful and the wave of steam scalded her skin, but she did not back down. She pulled
more water, hurling a thick column of it at the darkened mound, which she could only just make out
through the steam.
That heat was so intense! Aviendha stumbled backward a few steps, gritting her teeth, continuing to work.
Then there was a sudden explosion as another column of water burst from the river and slammed into the
fire. This, along with her own, diverted nearly the entire flow of the river. Aviendha blinked. The other
column was being directed by weaves she could not see, but she did notice a figure standing in a window
up on the second floor, hand forward, face concentrating intensely. Naeff, one of Rand's Asha'man. It was
said he was particularly strong with Air.
The fires had retreated; only the tarry mound remained, radiating a powerful heat. The wall near it and the
entryway inside had become a gaping, blackened hole. Aviendha continued to pull water and dump it on
the charred black mass, though she was beginning to feel extremely tired. Handling so much water
required her to channel almost to her capacity.
Soon the water stopped hissing. Aviendha slacked her flow, then let it dribble to a stop. The ground
around her was a wet, blackened disarray that smelled heavily of soggy ash. Bits of wood and char floated
in the muddy water, and the holes where she had ripped up earth were filled, making pools. She walked
forward hesitantly, inspecting the lump that was the remains of the unfortunate soldier. It was glassy and
black, like
186
THE GATHERING STORM
obsidian, and it sparkled wetly. She picked up a length of singed wood— broken from the wall by the
force of her water column—and poked at the mass. It was hard and firm.
"Burn you!" a voice bellowed. Aviendha looked up. Rand al'Thor strode through the broken hole that now
formed the front of the mansion. He stared at the sky, shaking his fist. "I am the one you want! You will
have your war soon enough!"
"Rand," Aviendha said hesitantly. Soldiers were milling about the green, looking concerned, as if
expecting a battle. Bewildered servants peeked out of rooms inside the manor. The entire episode with the
flames had taken less than five minutes.
"I will stop you!" Rand roared, causing calls of fright from both servants and soldiers. "Do you hear me! I
am coming for you! Don't waste your power! You will need it against me!"
"Rand!" Aviendha called.
He froze, then looked down at her, dazed. She met his eyes, and she could feel his anger, almost as she'd
felt the intense flames just a short time before. He turned and stalked away, walking back into the
building and up the blackened wooden steps.
"Light!" an anxious voice asked. "Does this sort of thing happen often when he is near?"
Aviendha turned to see a young man in an unfamiliar uniform standing and watching. He was lanky, with
light brown hair and coppery skin—she didn't remember his name, but she was fairly certain he was one
of the officers Rand had brought back after meeting with Rodel Ituralde.
She turned back to the mess, listening to soldiers call orders in the distance. Bashere had arrived and was
taking command, telling men to watch the perimeter, though he was likely just giving them something to
do. This was not the beginning of an attack. It was just another of the Dark One's touches on the world,
like meat spoiling, beetles and rats appearing from nothing, and men dropping dead of strange diseases.
"Yes," Aviendha said in response to the man's question, "it happens often. More often around the
Car'a'carn than in other places, at least. You have had similar events among your own men?"
"I have heard stories," he said. "Only I dismissed them."
"Not all stories are exaggerations," she said, looking at the blackened remains of the soldier. "The Dark
One's prison is weak."
"Bloody ashes," the young man said, turning away. "What have you gotten us into, Rodel?" The man
shook his head and stalked off.
THE DEATH OF ADRIN
187
Bashere's officers began calling orders, organizing the men to clean up. Would Rand move out of the
manor, now? When pockets of evil appeared, people often wanted to leave. And yet, through her bond
with Rand, she felt no urgency. In fact ... it seemed that he had gone back to rest! That man's moods were
becoming as erratic as Elayne's during her pregnancy.
Aviendha shook her head and started gathering burned chunks of wood to help clean. As she worked,
several Aes Sedai came out of the building and began inspecting the damage. The entire front of the
manor was scored with black marks, and the hole where the entry way had been was at least fifteen feet
across. One of the women, Merise, eyed Aviendha appreciatively. "A shame," she said.
Aviendha straightened up, lifting a piece of charred wood, her clothing still soaked. With those clouds
covering the sun, it would be long before she was dry. "A shame?" she asked. "About the manor?" The
portly Lord Tellaen, owner of the place, moaned to himself as he sat on a stool inside the entryway,
wiping his brow and shaking his head.
"No," Merise said. "A shame about you, child. Your skill with weaves, it is impressive. If we had you in
the White Tower, you'd have been an Aes Sedai by now. Your weaving, it has some roughness to it, but
you'd learn to fix that quickly if taught by sisters."
There was an audible sniff, and Aviendha spun. Melaine stood behind her. The golden-haired Wise One
had her arms folded beneath her breasts, and her stomach was starting to bulge with child. Her face was
not amused. How had Aviendha let the woman walk up behind her without hearing? She was letting her
fatigue make her careless.
Melaine and Merise stared at each other for a long moment; then the tall Aes Sedai spun in a flurry of
green skirts and moved off to speak with the servants who had been trapped by the flames, asking if any
of them needed Healing. Melaine watched her go, then shook her head. "Insufferable woman," she
muttered. "To think, how we once regarded them!"
"Wise One?" Aviendha asked.
"I'm stronger than most Aes Sedai, Aviendha, and you're far stronger than I am. You have a control and
understanding of weaves that puts most of us to shame. Others have to struggle to learn what comes
naturally to you. 'Roughness to your weaves,' she says! I doubt any of the Aes Sedai, save perhaps
Cadsuane Sedai, could have managed what you did with that column of water. Moving water that far
required you to use the river's own flow and pressure."
188
THE GATHERING STORM
"Is that what I did?" Aviendha asked, blinking.
Melaine eyed her, then snorted again, softly to herself. "Yes, that is what you did. You have such great
talent, child."
Aviendha swelled with the praise; from Wise Ones, it was rare, but always sincere.
"But you refuse to learn," Melaine continued. "There isn't much time! Here, I have another question for
you. What do you think of Rand al'Thor's plan to kidnap these Domani merchant chiefs?"
Aviendha blinked again, so tired it was hard to think. It defied reason that the Domani used merchants as
leaders in the first place. How could a merchant lead people? Did not merchants have to focus on their
wares? It was ridiculous. Would the wetlanders ever stop shocking her with their strange ways?
And why was Melaine asking her about this now of all times?
"His plan seems a good one, Wise One," Aviendha said. "Yet the spears do not like being used for
kidnapping. I think the Car'a'carn should have spoken in terms of offering protection—forced
protection— for the merchants. The chiefs would have responded better to being told they were protecting
rather than kidnapping."
"They would be doing the very same thing, no matter what you call it."
"But what you call a thing is important," Aviendha said. "It is not dishonest if both definitions are true."
Melaine's eyes twinkled, and Aviendha caught a hint of a smile on her lips. "What else do you think of the
meeting?"
"Rand al'Thor still seems to think that the Car'a'carn can make demands like a wetlander king. This is my
shame. I failed to explain the right way."
Melaine waved a hand. "You have no shame there. We all know how bullheaded the Car'a'carn is. The
Wise Ones have tried as well, and none have been able to train him correctly."
So. That wasn't the reason for her dishonor before the Wise Ones. What was it then? Aviendha ground her
teeth in frustration, then forced herself to continue. "Regardless, he needs to be reminded. Again and
again. Rhuarc is a wise and patient man, but not all clan chiefs are so. I know that some of the others
wonder if their decision to follow Rand al'Thor was an error."
"True," Melaine said. "But look at what happened to the Shaido."
"I did not say they were right, Wise One," Aviendha said. A group of
THE DEATH OF ADRIN
189
soldiers were hesitantly trying to pry up the glassy black mound. It appeared to have fused to the ground.
Aviendha lowered her voice. "They are wrong to question the Car'a'carn, but they are speaking to one
another. Rand al'Thor needs to realize that they will not accept offense after offense from him without
end. They may not turn against him like the Shaido, but I would not put it past Timolan—for instance—to
simply return to the Three-fold Land and leave the Car'a'carn to his arrogance."
Melaine nodded. "Do not worry. We are aware of this . . . possibility."
That meant Wise Ones had been sent to soothe Timolan, who was chief of the Miagoma Aiel. It would
not be the first time. Did Rand al'Thor know how hard the Wise Ones worked behind his back to maintain
Aiel loyalty? Probably not. He saw them all as one homogeneous group, sworn to him, to be used. That
was one of Rand's great weaknesses. He could not see that Aiel, like other people, did not like being used
as tools. The clans were far less tightly knit than he believed. Blood feuds had been put aside for him.
Couldn't he understand how incredible that was? Couldn't he see how tenuous that alliance continued to
be?
But not only was he a wetlander by birth, he was not a Wise One. Few Aiel themselves saw the work the
Wise Ones did in a dozen different areas. How simple life had seemed when she had been a Maiden! It
would have dazzled her to know how much went on beyond her sight.
Melaine stared blindly at the broken building. "A remnant of a remnant," she said, as if to herself. "And if
he leaves us burned and broken, like those boards? What will become of the Aiel then? Do we limp back
to the Three-fold Land and continue as we did before? Many will not want to leave. These lands offer too
much."
Aviendha blinked at the weight of those words. She had rarely given thought to what would happen after
the Car'a'carn was finished with them. She was centered on the now, upon regaining her honor and being
there to protect Rand al'Thor at the Last Battle. But a Wise One could not just think of the now or the
tomorrow. She had to think of the years ahead and the times that would be brought upon the winds.
A remnant of a remnant. He had broken the Aiel as a people. What would become of them?
Melaine glanced back at Aviendha, her face softening. "Go to the tents, child, and rest. You look like a
sharadan that has crawled on his belly across three days of sand."
Aviendha looked down at her arms, seeing the flakes of ash from the burnings. Her clothing was soaked
and stained, and she suspected that
190
THE GATHERING STORM
her face was just as filthy. Her arms ached from carrying the stones all day. Once she acknowledged the
fatigue, it seemed to crash upon her like a windstorm. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to remain
upright. She would not shame herself by collapsing! But she did turn to leave, as instructed.
"Oh, and Aviendha," Melaine called. "We will discuss your punishment tomorrow."
She turned in shock.
"For not finishing with the stones," Melaine said, surveying the wreckage again. "And for not learning
quickly enough. Go."
Aviendha sighed. Another round of questions, and another undeserved punishment. There was a
correlation of some sort. But what?
She was too exhausted to think about it for now. All she wanted was her bed, and she found herself
treacherously recalling the soft, luxurious mattresses back in the palace of Caemlyn. She forced those
thoughts out of her mind. Sleep that soundly, muffled in pillows and down comforters, and you'd be too
relaxed to wake if someone tried to kill you in the night! How had she let Elayne convince her to sleep in
one of those soft-feathered death traps?
Another thought occurred to her as she pushed that one away—a treacherous one. A thought of Rand
al'Thor, resting in his room. She could go to him. . . .
No! Not until she had her honor back. She would not go to him as a beggar. She would go to him as a
woman of honor. Assuming that she could ever figure out what she was doing wrong.
She shook her head and trotted toward the Aiel camp at the side of the green.
CHAPTER 12
Unexpected Encounters
Egwene walked the cavernous halls of the White Tower, lost in thought. Her two Red keepers trailed
along behind. They seemed a little sullen these days. Elaida ordered them to stay with Egwene more and
more often; though the individuals changed, there were almost always two with her. And yet, it seemed
that they could sense that Egwene considered them to be attendants rather than guards.
It had been well over a month since Siuan had conveyed her disturbing news in Tel'aran'rhiod, but still
Egwene thought about it. The events were a reminder that the world was coming apart. This was a time
when the White Tower should have been a source of stability. Instead, it divided against itself while Rand
al'Thor's men bonded sisters. How could Rand have allowed such a thing? There was obviously little left
of the youth with whom she'd grown up. Of course, there was little of the youthful Egwene left either.
Gone were the days when the two of them had seemed destined to end up married, living on a little farm
in the Two Rivers.
That, oddly, led her to thinking of Gawyn. How long had it been since she'd last seen him, stealing kisses
in Cairhien? Where was he now? Was he safe?
Keep focused, she told herself. Clean the patch of floor you're working on first before you move on to the rest of the
house. Gawyn could look after himself;
191
192
THE GATHERING STORM
he'd done a competent job of that in the past. Too competent, in some cases.
Siuan and the others would deal with the Asha'man matter. The other news was far more disturbing. One
of the Forsaken, in the camp? A woman, yet channeling saidin instead of saidar? Egwene would have
called it impossible, once. Yet she had seen ghosts in the halls of the White Tower, and the corridors
seemed to rearrange on a daily basis. This was just another sign.
She shivered. Halima had touched Egwene, supposedly massaging her headaches away. Those headaches
disappeared as soon as Egwene had been captured; why hadn't she considered that Halima might have
been causing them? What else had the woman been plotting? What hidden knots would the Aes Sedai
stumble over, what traps had she laid?
One section of the floor at a time. Clean what you could reach, then move on. Siuan and the others would
have to deal with Halima's plots, too.
Egwene's backside hurt, but the pain was growing increasingly irrelevant to her. Sometimes she laughed
when beaten, sometimes not. The strap was unimportant. The greater pain—what had been done to Tar
Valon—was far more demanding. She nodded to a group of white-clothed novices as they passed her in
the hallway, and they bobbed down in curtsies. Egwene frowned, but didn't chastise them—she just hoped
that they wouldn't draw penances from the trailing Reds for showing deference to Egwene.
Her goal was the quarters of the Brown Ajah, the section that was now down in the wing. Meidani had
taken her time volunteering to train Egwene today. The command had finally come today, weeks after the
first dinner with Elaida. Oddly, however, Bennae Nalsad had also offered to give her instruction this day.
Egwene hadn't spoken to the Shienaran Brown since that first conversation, some weeks before. She'd
never repeated lessons with the same woman twice. And yet, the name had been given to her in the
morning as the first of the day's visits.
When she reached the east wing, which now held the Brown sector of the Tower, her Red minders
reluctantly took up positions in the hallway outside, waiting for her return. Elaida probably would have
liked them to stay with Egwene, but after the Reds themselves had been so exacting in protecting their
boundary, there was little chance of another Ajah— even the mild Browns—letting a pair of Red sisters
infiltrate their quarters. Egwene hurried her pace as she entered the section with brown tiled floors,
passing bustling women in nondescript, muted dresses. It
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
193
was going to be a full day, with her appointments with sisters, her scheduled beatings, and her regular
novice load of scrubbing floors or other chores.
She arrived at Bennae's door, but hesitated there. Most sisters agreed to train Egwene only when forced
into the duty, and the experience was often unpleasant. Some of Egwene's teachers disliked her because
of her affiliation with the rebels, others were annoyed by how easily she could craft weaves, and still
others were infuriated to find that she would not show them respect like a novice.
These "lessons," however, had been among Egwene's best chances to sow seeds against Elaida. She'd
planted one of those during her first visit with Bennae. Had it begun to sprout?
Egwene knocked, and then entered at the call to come in. The sitting room inside was cluttered with the
refuse of scholarship. Stacks and stacks of books—like miniature city towers—leaned against one
another. Skeletons of various creatures were mounted in various states of construction; the woman owned
enough bones to populate a menagerie. Egwene shivered when she noticed a full human skeleton in the
corner, held upright and bound together with threads, some detailed notations written directly on the
bones in black ink.
There was barely room to walk and only one clear place to sit— Bennae's own stuffed chair, the armrests
worn with a twin set of depressions, doubtless where the Brown's arms had rested during countless
late-night reading sessions. The low ceiling felt lower for the several mummified fowl and astronomical
contraptions which hung above. Egwene had to duck her head beneath a model of the sun in order to
reach the place where Bennae stood rifling through a stack of leather-bound volumes.
"Ah," she said as she noticed Egwene. "Good." Slender in a bony sort of way, she had dark hair that was
streaked with gray from age. The hair was in a bun, and she—like many Browns—wore a simple dress
that hadn't been fashionable for a century or two.
Bennae moved over to her stuffed sitting chair, ignoring the stiffer chairs by the hearth—both of those
had accumulated stacks of papers since Egwene's previous visit. Egwene cleared off a stool, placing the
dusty skeleton of a rat on the floor between two stacks of books about the reign of Artur Hawkwing.
"Well, I suppose we should get on with your instruction, then," Bennae said, settling back in her chair.
194
THE GATHERING STORM
Egwene kept her face calm. Had Bennae requested an opportunity to train Egwene again? Or had she
been forced into it? Egwene could see an unsophisticated Brown sister getting repeatedly roped into a
duty that nobody else wanted.
At Bennae's request, Egwene performed a number of weaves, work far beyond the skill of most novices
but easy for Egwene, even with her power dampened by forkroot. She tried to tease out the Brown's
feelings on the relocation of her quarters, but Bennae—like most of the Browns Egwene had spoken
to—preferred to avoid that topic.
Egwene did some more weaves. After a time, she wondered just what the point of the meeting was.
Hadn't Bennae asked her to demonstrate most of these very same weaves during her previous visit?
"Very well," Bennae said, getting herself a cup of tea from a pot warming on a small coal brazier. She
didn't offer any tea to Egwene. "You are skilled enough at that. But I wonder. Do you have the sharpness
of mind, the ability to deal with difficult situations, that an Aes Sedai is required to have?"
Egwene said nothing, though she did pointedly pour herself some tea. Bennae did not object.
"Let's see ..." Bennae mused. "Suppose that you were in a situation where you were in conflict with some
members of your own Ajah. You have happened upon information you weren't supposed to know, and
your Ajah's leaders are quite upset with you. Suddenly, you find yourself being sentenced to some most
unpleasant duties, as if they are trying to sweep you under the rug and forget about you. Tell me, in this
situation, how would you react?"
Egwene almost choked on her tea. The Brown wasn't very subtle. She had begun asking about the
Thirteenth Depository, had she? And that had landed her in trouble? Few were supposed to know about
the secret histories that Egwene had mentioned so casually during her previous visit here.
"Well," Egwene said, sipping her tea, "let me approach it with a clear mind. Best to view it from the
perspective of the Ajah's leaders, I should think."
Bennae frowned faintly. "I suppose."
"Now, in this situation you describe, can we assume that these secrets have been entrusted to the Ajah for
safekeeping? Ah, good. Well, from their perspective, important and careful plans have been upset. Think
of
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
195
how it must look. Someone has learned secrets they should not. That whispers of a disturbing leak
somewhere among your most trusted members."
Bennae paled. "I suppose I could see that."
"Then the best way to handle the situation would be twofold," Eg-wene said, taking another sip of tea. It
tasted terrible. "First, the leaders of the Ajah would have to be reassured. They need to know that it wasn't
their fault that the information leaked. If I were the hypothetical sister in trouble—and if I'd done nothing
wrong—I'd go to them and explain. That way they could stop searching for the one who let information
slip."
"But," Bennae said, "that probably won't help the sister—the hypothetical one in trouble—get out of her
punishments."
"It couldn't hurt," Egwene said. "Likely, she's being 'punished' to keep her out of the way while the Ajah
leaders search for a traitor. When they know there isn't one, they'll be more likely to look at the fallen
sister's situation with empathy—particularly after she's offered them a solution."
"Solution?" Bennae asked. Her teacup sat in her fingers, as if forgotten. "And which solution would you
offer?"
"The best one: competence. Obviously, some people among the Ajah know these secrets. Well, if this
sister were to prove her trustworthiness and her capability, perhaps the leaders of her Ajah would realize
the best place for her is as one of the caretakers of the secrets. An easy solution, if you consider it."
Bennae sat thoughtfully, a small mummified finch spinning slowly on its cord directly above her. "Yes,
but will it work?"
"It is certainly better than serving in some forgotten storeroom cataloguing scrolls," Egwene said. "Unjust
punishment sometimes cannot be avoided, but it is best never to let others forget that it is unjust. If she
simply accepts the way people treat her, then it won't be long before they assume she deserves the
position they've placed her in." And thank you, Silviana, for that little bit of advice.
"Yes," Bennae said, nodding. "Yes, I do suppose that you are correct."
"I am always willing to help, Bennae," Egwene said in a softer voice, turning back to her tea. "In, of
course, hypothetical situations."
For a moment, Egwene worried that she'd gone too far in calling the Brown by her name. However,
Bennae met her eyes, then actually went so far as to bow her head just slightly in thanks.
If the hour spent with Bennae had been isolated, Egwene would still have found it remarkable. However,
she was shocked to discover—upon
196
THE GATHERING STORM
leaving Bennae's lair of a room—a novice waiting with a message instructing her to attend Nagora, a
White sister. Egwene still had time before her meeting with Meidani, so she went. She couldn't ignore a
summons from a sister, though she would undoubtedly have to do extra chores later to make up for
skipping the floor scrubbing.
At the meeting with Nagora, Egwene found herself being trained in logic—and the "logical puzzles"
presented sounded very similar to a request for help in dealing with a Warder who was growing frustrated
with his increasing age and inability to fight. Egwene gave what help she could, which Nagora declared to
be "logic without flaw" before releasing her. After that, there was another message, this one from Suana,
one of the Sitters of the Yellow Ajah.
A Sitter! It was the first time Egwene been ordered to attend one of them. Egwene hurried to the
appointment and was admitted by a maidservant. Suana's quarters looked more like a garden than proper
rooms. As a Sitter, Suana could demand quarters with windows, and she made full use of her inset
balcony as an herb garden. But beyond that, she had mirrors positioned to reflect light into the room,
which was overgrown with small potted trees, shrubs growing in large basins of earth, and even a small
garden for carrots and radishes. Egwene noticed with displeasure a small pile of rotted tubers in one
container, likely just harvested but somehow already spoiled.
The room smelled strongly of basil, thyme and a dozen other herbs. Despite the problems in the Tower,
despite the rotted plants, she was buoyed by the scent of life in the room—the freshly turned earth and
growing plants. And Nynaeve complained that the sisters in the White Tower ignored the usefulness of
herbs! If only she could spend some time with plump, round-faced Suana.
Egwene found the woman remarkably pleasant. Suana ran her through a series of weaves, many of them
related to Healing, where Egwene had never particularly shone. Still, her skill must have impressed the
Sitter, for midway through the lesson—Egwene seated on a cushioned stool between two potted trees,
Suana sitting more properly in a stiff leather-covered chair—the tone of the conversation changed.
"We should very much like to have you in the Yellow, I think," the woman said.
Egwene started. "I've never shown particular skill for Healing."
"Being of the Yellow isn't about skill, child," Suana said. "It's about
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
197
passion. If you love to make things well, to fix that which is broken, there would be a purpose for you
here."
"My thanks," Egwene said. "But the Amyrlin has no Ajah."
"Yes, but she's raised from one. Consider it, Egwene. I think you would find a good home here."
It was a shocking conversation. Suana obviously didn't consider Egwene the Amyrlin, but the mere fact
that she was recruiting Egwene to her Ajah said something. It meant she accepted Egwene's legitimacy, at
least to some degree, as a sister.
"Suana," Egwene said, testing how far she could push that sense of legitimacy, "have the Sitters spoken of
what to do about the tensions between the Ajahs?"
"I don't see what can be done," Suana replied, glancing toward her overgrown balcony. "If the other
Ajahs have decided to see the Yellow as their enemy, then I cannot compel them to be less foolish."
They likely say the same about you, Egwene thought, but said, "Someone must make the first steps. The
shell of distrust is growing so thick that soon it will be hard to crack. Perhaps if some of the Sitters of
different Ajahs began taking meals together, or were seen traveling the hallways in one another's
company, it would prove instructive for the rest of the Tower."
"Perhaps ..." Suana said.
"They aren't your enemies, Suana," Egwene said, letting her voice grow more firm.
The woman frowned at Egwene, as if realizing suddenly who she was taking advice from. "Well, then, I
think it's best that you ran along. I'm certain there is a great deal for you to do today."
Egwene let herself out, carefully avoiding drooping branches and clusters of pots. Once she left the
Yellow sector of the Tower and collected her Red Ajah attendants, she realized something. She'd gone
through all three meetings without being assigned a single punishment. She wasn't certain what to think of
that. She'd even called two of them by name directly to their faces!
They were coming to accept her. Unfortunately, that was only a small part of the battle. The larger part
was making certain the White Tower survived the strains Elaida was placing upon it.
*
*
198
THE GATHERING STORM
Meidani's quarters were surprisingly comfortable and homey. Egwene had always viewed the Grays as
similar to the Whites, lacking passion, perfect diplomats who didn't have time for personal emotions or
frivolities.
These rooms, however, hinted at a woman who loved to travel. Maps hung within delicate frames,
centered on the walls like prized pieces of art. A pair of Aiel spears hung on either side of one map;
another was a map of the Sea Folk islands. While many might have opted for the porcelain keepsakes that
were so commonly associated with the Sea Folk, Meidani had a small collection of earrings and painted
shells, carefully framed and displayed, along with a small plaque beneath listing dates of collection.
The sitting room was like a museum dedicated to one person's journeys. An Altaran marriage knife, set
with four twinkling rubies, hung beside a small Cairhienin banner and a Shienar sword. Each had a small
plaque explaining its significance. The marriage knife, for instance, had been presented to Meidani for her
help in settling a dispute between two houses over the death of a particularly important landowner. His
wife had given her the knife as a token of thanks.
Who would have thought that the cowering woman of the dinner a few weeks back would have such a
proud collection? The rug itself was labeled, the gift of a trader who had purchased it on the closed docks
of Shara, then bestowed it on Meidani in thanks for healing his daughter. It was of strange design, woven
from what seemed to be tiny, dyed reeds, with tufts of an exotic gray fur trimming the edges. The pattern
depicted exotic creatures with long necks.
Meidani herself sat on a curious chair made from woven wicker boughs, crafted to look like a growing
thicket of branches that just happened to take the shape of a chair. It would have been horribly out of
place in any other room in the Tower, but it fit within these quarters, where each item was different, none
of them related yet somehow all connected with the common theme of gifts received during travels.
The Gray's appearance was surprisingly different from what it had been during the dinner with Elaida.
Instead of the low-cut colorful dress, she wore a high-necked gown of plain white, long and tapering, cut
as if to deemphasize her bosom. Her deep golden hair was up in a bun, and she didn't wear a single
glimmer of jewelry. Was the contrast intentional?
"You took your time summoning me," Egwene said.
"I didn't want to appear suspicious before the Amyrlin," Meidani said as Egwene crossed the exotic Shara
rug. "Besides, I'm still not certain how I regard you."
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
199
"I don't care how you regard me," Egwene said evenly, seating herself on an oversized oak chair, bearing
a plaque that identified it as a gift from a moneylender in Tear. "An Amyrlin needs not the regard of those
who follow her, so long as she is obeyed."
"You've been captured and overthrown."
Egwene raised an eyebrow, meeting Meidani's gaze. "Captured, true."
"The Hall among the rebels will have chosen a new Amyrlin by now."
"I happen to know that they have not."
Meidani hesitated. Revealing the existence of contact with the rebel Aes Sedai was a gamble, but if she
couldn't secure the loyalty of Meidani and the spies, then she was on shaky ground indeed. Egwene had
assumed that it would be easy to gain the woman's support, considering how frightened Meidani had been
at supper. But it seemed that the woman was not as easily cowed as it had appeared.
"Well," Meidani said. "Even if that is true, you must know that they picked you to be a figurehead. A
puppet to be manipulated."
Egwene held the woman's gaze.
"You have no real authority," Meidani said, voice wavering slightly.
Egwene did not look away. Meidani studied her, brow wrinkling slowly, step by step, furrows appearing
across her smooth, ageless Aes Sedai face. She searched Egwene's eyes, like a mason searching a piece of
stone for flaws before setting it in place. What she found seemed to confuse her further.
"Now," Egwene said, as if she had not just been questioned, "you will tell me precisely why you have not
fled the Tower. While I do believe that your spying on Elaida is valuable, you must know how much
danger you are in now that Elaida is aware of your true allegiance. Why not leave?"
"I ... cannot say," Meidani said, glancing away.
"I'm commanding you as your Amyrlin."
"I still cannot say." Meidani looked down at the floor, as if ashamed.
Curious, Egwene thought, hiding her frustration. "It is obvious that you do not understand the gravity of
our situation. Either you accept my authority, or you accept that of Elaida. There is no middle ground,
Meidani. And I promise you this: If Elaida retains the Amyrlin Seat, you will find her treatment of those
she sees as traitors to be quite unpleasant."
Meidani continued to look down. Despite her initial resistance, it seemed that she had little strength of
will remaining.
"I see." Egwene rose to her feet. "You've betrayed us, haven't you?
200
THE GATHERING STORM
Did you go to Elaida's side before you were exposed or after Beonin's confession?"
Meidani looked up immediately. "What? No! I never betrayed our cause!" She seemed sickened, face
pale, mouth a thin line. "How could you think that I'd support that horrid woman? I hate what she has
done to the Tower."
Well, that was straightforward enough; little room to wiggle around the Three Oaths in those statements.
Either Meidani was true or she was Black—though Egwene had difficulty believing that a Black sister
would endanger herself by telling a lie that could be exposed with such relative ease.
"Why not run, then?" Egwene asked. "Why stay?"
Meidani shook her head. "I cannot say."
Egwene took a deep breath. Something about the entire conversation irritated her. "Will you at least tell
me why you take dinner with Elaida so often? Surely it's not because you enjoy such treatment."
Meidani blushed. "Elaida and I were pillow-friends during our days as novices. The others decided that if
I were to renew the relationship, perhaps it would lead to my gaining valuable information."
Egwene folded her arms beneath her breasts. "It seems reckless to assume she would trust you. However,
Elaida's thirst for power is guiding her to make reckless moves of her own, so perhaps the plan was not
completely ill advised. Regardless, she'll never draw you into her confidence now that she knows of your
true allegiances."
"I know. But it was decided that I shouldn't let on that I'm aware of her knowledge. If I were to back away
now, it would let on that we've been warned—and that is one of the precious few edges we now hold."
Precious few enough that she should have just run from the Tower. There was nothing to be gained by
staying. Why, then? Something was holding the woman back, it seemed. Something strong. A promise?
"Meidani," Egwene said, "I need to know what it is that you aren't telling me."
She shook her head; she almost looked afraid. Light! Egwene thought. I won't do to her what Elaida does
those evenings at supper.
Egwene sat back down. "Straighten your back, Meidani. You're not some simpering novice. You're Aes
Sedai. Start acting like one."
The woman looked up, eyes flashing at the taunt. Egwene nodded approvingly. "We will mend the
damage that Elaida has done, and I will sit in my rightful place as Amyrlin. But we have work to do."
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
201
"I can't—"
"Yes," Egwene said. "You can't tell me what is wrong. I suspect that the Three Oaths are involved, though
Light knows how. We can work around the problem. You can't tell me why you've remained in the
Tower. But can you show me?"
Meidani cocked her head. "I'm not sure. I could take you to—" She cut off abruptly. Yes, one of the Oaths
was forcibly preventing her from continuing. "I might be able to show you," Meidani finished lamely.
"I'm not certain."
"Then let's find out. How dangerous will it be if those Red handlers of mine follow us?"
Meidani paled. "Dangerous."
"Then we'll have to leave them behind," Egwene said, absently tapping the armrest of her oversized oak
chair with one nail as she thought. "We could leave the Gray section of the Tower by another way, but if
we are seen, it could raise difficult questions."
"There have been a lot of Reds lurking near the entrances and exits of our quarters," Meidani said. "I
suspect all of the Ajahs are watching one another like that. It will be very difficult to get away without
being noticed. They wouldn't follow me alone, but if they see you . . ."
Spies, watching the other Ajah quarters? Light! Had it gotten so bad? That was like scouts being sent to
watch enemy camps. She couldn't risk being seen leaving with Meidani, but to go alone would draw
attention, too—the Reds knew Egwene was supposed to be guarded.
That left a problem, one Egwene could think of only way to solve. She eyed Meidani. How far to trust
her? "You promise that you do not support Elaida, and that you accept my leadership?"
The woman hesitated, then nodded. "I do."
"If I show you something, do you vow not to reveal it to anyone else without my permission first?"
She frowned. "Yes."
Egwene made her decision. Taking a deep breath, she embraced the Source. "Watch closely," she said,
weaving threads of Spirit. Dampened by forkroot, she wasn't strong enough to open a gateway, but she
could still show Meidani the weaves.
"What is that?" Meidani asked.
"It's called a gateway," Egwene said. "Used for Traveling."
"Traveling is impossible!" Meidani said immediately. "The ability has been lost for. ..." She trailed off,
eyes opening more widely.
202
THE GATHERING STORM
Egwene let the weave dissipate. Immediately, Meidani embraced the Source, looking determined.
"Think of the place you want to go," Egwene said. "You have to know the place you're leaving behind
very well to make this work. I assume that you are familiar enough with your own quarters. Pick a
destination where nobody is likely to be; gateways can be dangerous if they open in the wrong location."
Meidani nodded, golden bun bobbing as she concentrated. She did an admirable job of imitating Egwene's
weave, and a gateway opened directly between the two of them, white line splitting the air and bending
upon itself. The hole was on Meidani's side; Egwene saw only a shimmering patch, like a draft of heat
warping the air. She rounded the gateway, looking through the hole at a darkened stone hallway beyond.
The tiles on the floor were of a subdued white and brown, and there were no windows within sight. In the
depths of the Tower, Egwene guessed.
"Quickly," Egwene said. "If I don't return from your quarters after about an hour, my Red minders might
begin to wonder what is taking so long. It's already suspicious to have you, of all people, send for me. We
can only hope that Elaida isn't careful enough to wonder at the coincidence."
"Yes, Mother," Meidani said, rushing over and taking a bronze lamp from her table, the flame flickering
at the spout. Then she hesitated.
"What?" Egwene asked.
"I'm just surprised."
Egwene almost asked what was so surprising, but then she saw it in Meidani's eyes. Meidani was
surprised at how quickly she'd found herself obeying. She was surprised by how natural it was to think of
Egwene as Amyrlin. This woman hadn't been won over completely, not yet, but she was close.
"Quickly," Egwene said.
Meidani nodded, stepping through the gateway, and Egwene followed. Though the floor beyond was free
of dust, the corridor was thick with the musty scent of uncirculated air. The walls were bare of the
ornamentations one saw occasionally in the upper corridors, and the only sound was that of a few distant
rats scratching. Rats. In the White Tower. Once, that would have been impossible. The failure of the
wards was just one more impossibility atop an ever-growing stack.
This was not an area often given attention by the Tower servants. That was probably why Meidani had
chosen it to open the gateway. That was well and good, but she was probably erring on the side of safety.
This
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
203
deep within the Tower, it would take precious minutes to return to the main hallways and find whatever it
was Meidani wished to show her. And that would present its own problems. What would happen if other
sisters took note of Egwene moving through the corridors without her normal complement of Red Ajah
guards?
Before Egwene could voice this concern, Meidani began to walk away. Not up the hallway toward the
stairwells, but down it, moving deeper. Egwene frowned, but followed.
"I'm not certain if I'll be allowed to show you," Meidani said softly, her skirts swishing, the sound not
unlike that of the faint scrambling of the distant rats. "I must warn you, however, that you may be
surprised at what you are stepping into. It could be dangerous."
Did Meidani mean physical danger or political danger? It seemed that Egwene was in about as much of
the latter as was possible. Still, she nodded and accepted the warning with solemnity. "I understand. But if
something dangerous is happening in the Tower, I must know of it. It is not only my right, but my duty."
Meidani said no more. She led Egwene through the twisting passage, muttering that she'd have liked to
have been able to bring her Warder. He was apparently out in the city on some errand. The hall spiraled
not unlike the undulating coils of the Great Serpent itself. Just when Egwene was growing impatient,
Meidani stopped beside a closed door. It looked no different from the dozens of other near-forgotten
storage rooms that budded off the main corridor. Meidani raised a hesitant hand, then knocked sharply.
The door opened immediately, revealing a keen-eyed Warder with ruddy hair and a square jaw. He eyed
Meidani, then turned to Egwene, his expression growing darker. His arm flinched, as if he'd just barely
stopped himself from reaching for the sword at his side.
"That will be Meidani," a woman's voice said from inside the room, "come to report on her meeting with
the girl. Adsalan?"
The Warder stepped aside, revealing a small chamber set with boxes for chairs. It held four women, all
Aes Sedai. And, shockingly, each was of a different Ajah! Egwene hadn't seen women of four different
Ajahs so much as walk together in the hallways, let alone hold conference together. Not a single one of
them was Red, and each of the four was a Sitter.
Seaine was the stately woman in white robes and silver trim. A Sitter from the White Ajah, she had thick
black hair and eyebrows, and watery blue eyes that regarded Egwene with an even expression. Beside her
204
THE GATHERING STORM
was Doesine, a Sitter of the Yellow Ajah. She was slender and tall for a Cairhienin; her rich rose-colored
dress was embroidered with gold. Her hair was adorned with sapphires, matched by the stone at her
forehead.
Yukiri was the Gray sister sitting beside Doesine. Yukiri was one of the shortest women that Egwene had
ever met, but she had a way of regarding others that always made her seem in control, even when
accompanied by very tall Aes Sedai. The last woman was Saerin, an Altaran Sitter for the Brown. Like
many Browns, she wore unornamented dresses, this one a nondescript tan. Her olive skin was marred by a
scar on her left cheek. Egwene knew very little about her. Of all the sisters in the room, she seemed the
least shocked to see Egwene.
"What have you done?" Seaine said to Meidani, aghast.
"Adsalan, bring them in here," Doesine said, rising and gesturing urgently. "If someone were to walk by
and see the al'Vere girl there. . . ."
Meidani cringed before the stern words—yes, she would require a great deal of work before she had the
bearing of an Aes Sedai again. Egwene stepped into the room, moving before the brutish Warder could
pull her forward. Meidani followed, and Adsalan closed the door with a thump. The room was lit by a pair
of lamps that didn't give quite enough light, as if to complement the conspiratorial nature of the women's
conference.
The boxes might as well have been thrones for the way the four Sitters occupied them, and so Egwene sat
herself on one as well. "You were not given leave to sit, girl," Saerin said coldly. "Meidani, what is the
meaning of this outrage? Your oath was to have prevented this sort of lapse!"
"Oath?" Egwene asked. "And which oath would this be?"
"Quiet, girl," Yukiri snapped, slapping Egwene across the back with a switch of Air. It was such a faint
punishment that Egwene almost laughed.
"I didn't break my oath!" Meidani said quickly, stepping up beside Egwene. "You ordered me not to tell
anyone of these meetings. Well, I have obeyed—I didn't tell her. I showed her." There was a spark of
defiance in the woman. That was good.
Egwene wasn't certain what was going on in the room, but four Sitters together presented her with an
unequaled opportunity. She'd never thought to get a chance to speak with so many at once, and if these
were willing to meet together, then perhaps they were free of the fractures undermining the rest of the
Tower.
Or was their meeting a hint of something more dark? Oaths Egwene
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
205
didn't know about, meetings away from the upper corridors, a Warder guarding the door . . . were these
women of four Ajahs, or of one? Had she unwittingly bumbled her way into the center of a nest of
Blacks?
Heart beginning to race, Egwene forced herself not to jump to conclusions. If they were Black, then she
was caught. If they were not, then she had work to do.
"This is very unexpected," calm Seaine was saying to Meidani. "We'll take extra care with the wording of
your future orders, Meidani."
Yukiri nodded. "I didn't think that you'd be so childish as to expose us out of spite. We should have
realized that you, like all of us, would have experience pushing and bending oaths to suit your needs."
Wait, Egwene thought. That sounds like. . . .
"Indeed," Yukiri said. "I think that penance will be in order for this infraction. But what are we to do with
this girl she brought? She's not sworn on the Rod, and so it would be—"
"You gave her a. fourth oath, didn't you?" Egwene interrupted. "What under the Light were you
thinking?"
Yukiri glanced at her, and Egwene felt another swish of Air. "You were not given leave to speak."
"The Amyrlin needs no leave to speak," Egwene said, staring the women down. "What have you done
here, Yukiri? You betray all that we are! The Oaths are not to be used as tools of division. Has this entire
Tower gone as insane as Elaida?"
"It's not insanity," Saerin said suddenly, butting into the conversation. The Brown shook her head, more
commanding than Egwene would have expected for one of her Ajah. "It was only done out of necessity.
This one couldn't be trusted, not after siding with the rebels."
"Do not think we're unaware of your own involvement with that group, Egwene al'Vere," Yukiri said. The
haughty Gray was barely in control of her anger. "If we have our way, you will not be treated with such
coddling as Elaida has shown you."
Egwene gestured indifferently. "Still me, execute me or beat me, Yukiri, and the Tower will yet be in
shambles. The ones you so easily label as rebels are not to blame for that. Secret meetings in the
basements, oaths administered without warrant—these are crimes at least equal to that of dividing from
Elaida."
"You should not question us," Seaine said in a quieter voice. She seemed more timid than the others.
"Sometimes, difficult decisions must be made. We cannot have Darkfriends among the Aes Sedai, and
measures
206
THE GATHERING STORM
have been taken to search them out. We here each proved to Meidani that we are not friends of the
Shadow, and so there can be no harm in making her give an oath to us. It was a reasonable action to make
certain we are all working for the same goals."
Egwene kept her face calm. Seaine had all but admitted to the existence of the Black Ajah! Egwene had
never expected to hear that from the mouth of a Sitter, particularly in front of so many witnesses. So these
women were using the Oath Rod to search out Black sisters. If you took each sister, removed her oaths
and made her reswear them, you could ask her if she were Black. A desperate method, but—Egwene
decided—a legitimate one, considering the times.
"I concede that it is a reasonable plan," Egwene said. "But swearing this woman to a new oath is
unnecessary!"
"And if the woman is known to have other loyalties?" Saerin demanded. "Just because a woman isn't a
Darkfriend doesn't mean she won't betray us in other ways."
And that oath of obedience was probably the reason Meidani couldn't flee the Tower. Egwene felt a stab
of sympathy for the poor woman. Sent by the Salidar Aes Sedai to return and spy on the Tower,
discovered by these women—presumably—during their search for the Black, then revealed in her true
purpose to Elaida. Three different factions, all pushing against her.
"It's still inappropriate," Egwene said. "But we can set that aside for now. What of Elaida herself? Have
you determined if she is of the Black? Who gave you this charge, and how did your cabal form?"
"Bah! Why are we speaking with her?" Yukiri demanded, standing up and putting her hands on her hips.
"We should be deciding what to do with her, not answering her questions!"
"If I am to help in your work," Egwene said, "then I need to be aware of the facts."
"You are not here to help, child," Doesine said. The slender Cairhienin Yellow's voice was firm.
"Obviously, Meidani brought you to prove that we don't have her completely beneath our thumbs. Like a
child throwing a tantrum."
"What of the others?" Seaine said. "We need to gather them and make certain that their orders are worded
better. We wouldn't want one of them to go to the Amyrlin before we know where her loyalties lie."
Others? Egwene thought. Have they sworn all of the spies, then? It made
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
207
sense. Discover one, and it would be easy to get the names of the others. "Have you found any actual
members of the Black, then?" Egwene asked. "Who are they?"
"You are to remain quiet, child," Yukiri said, focusing green eyes on Egwene. "One more word, and I
shall see you taking penance until you run out of tears to weep."
"I doubt you can order me to any more of it than I already have, Yukiri," Egwene said calmly. "Unless I
am to be in the Mistress of Novices' study all day each day. Besides, if you sent me to her, what would I
tell her? That you personally gave me penance? She'd know that I wasn't scheduled to see you today. That
might start raising questions."
"We could just have Meidani order you to penance," said Seaine the White.
"She won't do such a thing," Egwene said. "She accepts my authority as Amyrlin."
The other sisters glanced at Meidani. Egwene held her breath. Meidani managed a nod, though she looked
horrified to be defying the others. Egwene released a quiet breath of thanks.
Saerin looked surprised, but curious. Yukiri, still standing with her arms folded, was not so easily
dissuaded. "That's meaningless. We'll just order her to send you to penance."
"Will you?" Egwene said. "I thought that you told me that the fourth oath was meant to restore unity, to
keep her from fleeing to Elaida with your secrets. Now you would use that oath like a cudgel, forcing her
to become your tool?"
That brought silence to the room.
"This is why an oath of obedience is a terrible idea," Egwene said. "No woman should have this much
power over another. What you have done to these others is only one step shy of Compulsion. I'm still
trying to decide if this abomination is in any way justified; the way you treat Meidani and the others will
likely sway that decision."
"Must I repeat myself?" Yukiri snapped, turning to the others. "Why are we wasting time clucking with
this girl like hens left to the range? We need to make a decision!"
"We're speaking with her because she seems determined to make herself a nuisance," Saerin said curtly,
regarding Egwene. "Sit down, Yukiri. I will deal with the child."
Egwene met Saerin's eyes, heart thumping. Yukiri sniffed, then seated
208
THE GATHERING STORM
herself, finally seeming to remember that she was Aes Sedai as she calmed her expression. This group
was under a great deal of pressure. If it became known what they were doing. . . .
Egwene kept her eyes on Saerin. She'd assumed that Yukiri was in charge of the group—she and Saerin
were near in power, and many Browns were docile. But that had been a mistake; it was too easy to
prejudge someone based on their Ajah.
Saerin leaned forward, speaking firmly. "Child, we must have your obedience. We cannot swear you to
the Oath Rod, and I doubt you'd make an oath of obedience anyway. But you cannot continue this charade
of being the Amyrlin Seat. We all know how often you take penance, and we all know what little good it
is doing. So let me try something that I assume nobody else has tried with you: reason."
"You may speak your mind," Egwene said.
The Brown sniffed in response. "All right. For one thing, you can't be Amyrlin. With that forkroot, you
can barely channel!"
"Is the Amyrlin Seat's authority, then, in her power to channel?" Egwene asked. "Is she nothing more than
a bully, obeyed because she can force others to do as she demands?"
"Well, no," Saerin said.
"Then I don't see why my having been given forkroot has anything to do with my authority."
"You've been demoted to novice."
"Only Elaida is foolish enough to assume one can remove an Aes Sedai's rank." Egwene said. "She should
never have been allowed to assume she had that power in the first place."
"If she didn't assume it," Saerin said, "then you would be dead, girl."
Egwene met Saerin's eyes again. "Sometimes, I feel it would be better to be dead than to see what Elaida
has done to the women of this Tower."
That brought silence to the room.
"I must say," Seaine said quietly, "your claims are completely irrational. Elaida is the Amyrlin because
she was raised properly by the Hall. Therefore, you can't be Amyrlin."
Egwene shook her head. "She was 'raised' after a shameful and unorthodox removal of Siuan Sanche from
the seat. How can you call Elaida's position 'proper' in the face of that?" Something occurred to her, a
gamble, but it felt right. "Tell me this. Have you interrogated any women who are currently Sitters? Have
you found any Blacks among them?"
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
209
While Saerin's eyes remained even, Seaine glanced away, troubled. There! Egwene thought.
"You have," Egwene said. "It makes sense. If I were a member of the Black, I'd try very hard to get one of
my fellow Darkfriends named as a Sitter. From there they can manipulate the Tower best. Now tell me
this. Were any of these Black Sitters among those who raised Elaida? Did any of them stand to depose
Siuan?"
There was silence.
"Answer me," Egwene said.
"We found a Black among the Sitters," Doesine finally said. "And . . . yes, she was one of those who
stood to depose Siuan Sanche." Her voice was somber. She'd realized what Egwene was getting at.
"Siuan was deposed by the bare minimum number of Sitter required," Egwene said. "One of them was
Black, making her vote invalid. You stilled and deposed your Amyrlin, murdering her Warder, and you
did it unlawfully."
"By the Light," Seaine whispered. "She's right."
"This is pointless," Yukiri said, standing again. "If we begin second-guessing, trying to confirm which
Amyrlins might have been raised by members of the Black, then we'd have reason to suspect every
Amyrlin who ever held the seat!"
"Oh?" Egwene asked. "And how many of them were raised by a Hall filled by only the exact minimum
number of currently sitting members? This is only one reason why it was a grave mistake to unseat Siuan
this way. When I was raised, we made certain that every Sitter in the city was aware of what was
happening."
"False Sitters," Yukiri said, pointing. "Given their places unlawfully!"
Egwene turned toward her, glad they couldn't hear her nervously pounding heart. She had to remain in
control. She had to. "You call us false, Yukiri? Which Amyrlin would you rather follow? The one who
has been making novices and Accepted out of Aes Sedai, banishing an entire Ajah, and causing divisions
in the Tower more dangerous than any army that ever assaulted it? A woman who was raised partially
through the help of the Black Ajah? Or would you rather serve the Amyrlin who is trying to undo all of
that?"
"Surely you're not saying that you think we served the Black in raising Elaida," Doesine said.
"I think we all are serving the interests of the Shadow," Egwene said
210
THE GATHERING STORM
sharply, "so long as we allow ourselves to remain divided. How do you imagine the Black reacted to the
near-secret deposing of an Amyrlin Seat, followed by a division among the Aes Sedai? I would not be
surprised to find, after some investigation, that this nameless Black sister you discovered was not the only
Darkfriend among the group who worked to unseat the rightful Amyrlin."
This brought another round of silence to the room.
Saerin settled back and sighed. "We cannot change the past. Enlightening though your arguments are,
Egwene al'Vere, they are ultimately fruitless."
"I agree that we cannot change what has happened," Egwene said, nodding to her. "However, we can look
to the future. As admirable as I find your work to discover the Black Ajah, I am far more encouraged by
your willingness to work together to do it. In the current Tower, cooperation between the Ajahs is rare. I
challenge you to take that as your main goal, bringing unity to the White Tower. Whatever the cost."
She stood up, and she half-expected a sister to rebuke her, but they almost seemed to have forgotten that
they were speaking with a "novice" and a rebel. "Meidani," Egwene said. "You accept me as Amyrlin."
"Yes, Mother," the woman said, bowing her head.
"I charge you, then, to continue your work with these women. They are not our enemies and they never
were. Sending you back as a spy was a mistake, one I wish I'd been able to stop. Now that you are here,
however, you can be of use. I regret that you must continue your performance before Elaida, but I
commend you for your courage in that regard."
"I will serve as needed, Mother," she said, though she looked sick.
Egwene glanced at the others. "Loyalty is better earned than forced. Do you have the Oath Rod here?"
"No," Yukiri said. "It's difficult to sneak away. We can only take it on occasion."
"A pity," Egwene said. "I'd have liked to take the oaths. Regardless, you will promptly take it and release
Meidani from the fourth oath."
"We'll consider it," Saerin said.
Egwene raised an eyebrow. "As you wish. But know that once the White Tower is whole again, the Hall
will learn of this action you have taken. I would like to be able to inform them that you were being
careful, rather than seeking unwarranted power. If you need me in the next few days, you may send for
me—but kindly find a way to deal with the two Red sisters who are watching me. I'd rather not use
Traveling within
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
211
the Tower again, lest I unwittingly reveal too much to those who would be better left ignorant."
She left that statement hanging before walking to the door. The Warder didn't stop her, though he did
watch with those suspicious eyes of his. She wondered whose Warder he was—she didn't believe any of
the sisters inside the room had Warders, though she wasn't certain. Perhaps he belonged to one of the
other spies sent from Salidar, and had been drafted by Saerin and the others. That would explain his
disposition.
Meidani quickly followed Egwene from the room, glancing over her shoulder, as if expecting argument or
censure to fly out behind her. The Warder simply pulled the door shut.
"I can't believe you succeeded," the Gray said. "They should have strung you up by your heels and had
you howling!"
"They are too wise for that," Egwene said. "They're the only ones in this blasted Tower—besides maybe
Silviana—who have anything resembling heads sitting atop their shoulders."
"Silviana?" Meidani asked with surprise. "Doesn't she beat you every day?"
"Several times a day," Egwene said absently. "She's very dutiful, not to mention thoughtful. If we had
more like her, the Tower wouldn't have gotten to this state in the first place."
Meidani regarded Egwene, an odd expression on her face. "You really are the Amyrlin," she finally said.
It was an odd comment. Hadn't she just sworn that she accepted Egwene's authority?
"Come on," Egwene said, hastening her pace. "I need to get back before those Reds grow suspicious."
CHAPTER
13
An Offer and a Departure
Gawyn stood, sword at the ready, facing down two Warders. The barn let in slots of light, air sparkling
with dust and bits of straw kicked up from the fighting. Gawyn backed slowly across the packed dirt
floor, passing through patches of light. The air was warm on his skin. Trickles of sweat ran down from his
temples, but his grip was firm as the two Warders advanced on him.
The one in front was Sleete, a limber, long-armed man with rough-hewn features. In the barn's uneven
light, his face looked like an unfinished work one might find in a sculptor's workshop, with long shadows
across his eyes, his chin divided by a cleft, his nose crooked from being broken and not Healed. He wore
long hair and black sideburns.
Hattori had been quite pleased when her Warder had finally arrived at Dorian; she'd lost him at Dumai's
Wells, and his story was the sort gleemen and bards sang about. Sleete had lain wounded for hours before
deliriously managing to grab his horse's reins and pull himself into the saddle. It had loyally carried him,
near unconscious, for hours before arriving at a nearby village. The villagers there had been tempted to
sell Sleete to a local band of bandits—their leader had visited earlier promising them safety as a reward
for revealing any refugees from the nearby battle. However, the mayor's daughter had argued for Sleete's
life, convincing them that the bandits must be Darkfriends if they were seeking
212
AN OFFER AND A DEPARTURE
213
wounded Warders. The villagers had chosen to hide Sleete instead, and the girl had nursed him to safety.
Sleete had been forced to sneak away once he was well enough to travel; the girl had apparently taken
quite a liking to him. Whispers among the Younglings said that Sleete s escape had also come because he
had begun feeling affection for the girl himself. Most Warders knew better than to let themselves grow
attached. Sleete had left in the night, after the girl and her family fell asleep—but in return for the
village's mercy, he'd hunted down the bandits and seen to it that they would never plague the village
again.
It was the marrow of stories and legends—at least, among regular, lesser men. For a Warder, Sleete's
story was almost commonplace. Men like him attracted legends as ordinary men attracted fleas. In fact,
Sleete hadn't wanted to share his tale; it had come out only owing to a vigorous campaign of questions
from the Younglings. He still acted as if his survival were nothing to brag about. He was a Warder.
Surviving against the odds, riding in delirium over miles of rough terrain, cutting down an entire band of
thieves with wounds not fully healed—these were just the sorts of things you did when you were a
Warder.
Gawyn respected them. Even the ones he had killed. Especially the ones he had killed. It took a unique
kind of man to show this kind of dedication, this kind of vigilance. This kind of humility. While Aes
Sedai manipulated the world and monsters like al'Thor got the glory, men like Sleete quietly did the work
of heroes, each and every day. Without glory or recognition. If they were remembered, it was usually only
by association with their Aes Sedai. Or it was by other Warders. You didn't forget your own.
Sleete attacked, sword lancing forward in a straight thrust delivered for maximum speed. The Viper
Flicks Its Tongue, a bold strike, made more effective because Sleete fought in tandem with the narrow,
short man rounding toward Gawyn's left. Marlesh was the only other Warder in Dorian—and his arrival
had been far less dramatic than Sleete's. Marlesh had been with the original group of eleven Aes Sedai
who had escaped Dumai's Wells, and he had stayed with them the entire time. His own Aes Sedai, a
pretty young Domani Green named Vasha, watched idly from the side of the barn.
Gawyn countered The Viper Flicks Its Tongue with Cat Dances on the Wall, knocking aside the strike
and going for the legs in one sweep. It wasn't intended to hit, however; it was a defensive move, meant to
enable
214
THE GATHERING STORM
him to keep an eye on both opponents. Marlesh tried Leopard's Caress, but Gawyn moved into Folding
the Air, carefully knocking aside the blow and waiting for another from Sleete, who was the more
dangerous of the two. Sleete repositioned, taking smooth steps, his blade to the side as he set his back to
the massive piles of hay at the rear of the stuffy barn.
Gawyn moved into Cat on Hot Sand as Marlesh tried Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose. Hummingbird
wasn't the right form to use in such an attack; it was rarely useful against someone on the defensive, but
Marlesh was obviously tired of being parried. He was getting eager. Gawyn could use that. And would.
Sleete was advancing again. Gawyn brought his sword back in to guard as the Warders approached in
tandem. Gawyn immediately moved into Apple Blossoms in the Wind. His blade flashed three times,
pushing a wide-eyed Marlesh back. Marlesh cursed, throwing himself forward, but Gawyn brought his
sword up from the previous form and moved flu-idly into Shake Dew from the Branch. He stepped
forward into a series of six sharp blows, three at each opponent, knocking Marlesh back and to the
ground—the man had stepped back into the fight too quickly—and forcing Sleete's blade aside twice,
then ending with his blade against the man's neck.
The two Warders looked at Gawyn, shocked. They had borne similar expressions the last time Gawyn had
defeated them, and the time before that. Sleete carried a heron-mark blade and was near-legendary in the
White Tower for his prowess. He was said to have bested even Lan Man-dragoran twice out of seven
bouts, back when Mandragoran had been known to spar with other Warders. Marlesh wasn't as renowned
as his companion, but he was still a fully capable and trained Warder, no easy foe.
But Gawyn had won. Again. Things seemed so simple when he was sparring. The world contracted
down—compressed like berries squeezed for their juice—into something smaller and easier to see from
up close. All Gawyn had ever wanted was to protect Elayne. He wanted to defend Andor. Maybe learn to
be a little more like Galad.
Why couldn't life be as simple as a sword match? Opponents clear and arranged before you. The prize
obvious: survival. When men fought, they connected. You became brothers as you traded blows.
Gawyn removed his blade and stepped away, sheathing it. He offered a hand to Marlesh, who took it,
shaking his head as he stood. "You are remarkable, Gawyn Trakand. Like a creature of light, color and
shadow when you move. I feel like a babe holding a stick when I face you."
AN OFFER AND A DEPARTURE
215
Sleete said nothing as he sheathed his own sword, but he did nod his head to Gawyn in respect—just as he
had the last two times they'd fought. He was a man of few words. Gawyn appreciated that.
In the corner of the barn there was a half-barrel filled with water, and the men walked to it. Corbet, one of
the Younglings, hurriedly dipped a ladleful and handed it to Gawyn. Gawyn gave it to Sleete. The older
man nodded again and took a drink while Marlesh took a cup off the dusty windowsill and got himself a
drink. "I'm saying, Trakand," the short man continued, "we'll need to find you a blade with some herons
on it. No one should have to face you without knowing what they're getting into!"
"I'm not a blademaster," Gawyn said quietly, taking the ladle back from crook-nosed Sleete and having a
drink. It was warm, which felt good. Less of a shock, more natural.
"You killed Hammar, didn't you?" Marlesh asked.
Gawyn hesitated. The simplicity he'd felt before, while fighting, was already crumbling. "Yes."
"Well, then you're a blademaster," Marlesh said. "Should have taken his sword when he fell."
"It wasn't respectful," Gawyn said. "Besides, I didn't have time to claim prizes."
Marlesh laughed, as if at a joke, though Gawyn hadn't intended one. He glanced over at Sleete, who was
watching him with curious eyes.
A rustle of skirts announced the approach of Vasha. The Green had long black hair and striking green
eyes that at times seemed almost catlike. "Are you done playing, Marlesh?" she asked with a faintly
Domani accent.
Marlesh chuckled. "You should be happy to see me play, Vasha. I seem to recall my 'playing' saving your
neck a couple of times on the battlefield."
She sniffed and raised an eyebrow. Gawyn had rarely seen an Aes Sedai and Warder with as casual a
relationship as these two. "Come," she said, turning on her heel and walking toward the open barn doors.
"I want to see what has been keeping Narenwin and the others so long indoors. It smells of decisions
being made."
Marlesh shrugged and tossed the cup to Corbet. "Whatever they're deciding, I hope it involves moving. I
don't like sitting around in this city with those soldiers creeping up on us. If it gets any more tense in
camp, I'm likely to run off and join the Tinkers."
Gawyn nodded at that comment. It had been weeks since he'd last
216
THE GATHERING STORM
dared send the Younglings to raid. Bryne's search parties were getting closer and closer to the city, and
that allowed fewer and fewer rides out across the countryside.
Vasha passed out the doors, but Gawyn could still hear her say, "You can sound like such a child at
times." Marlesh just shrugged, waving farewell to Gawyn and Sleete before stepping out of the barn.
Gawyn shook his head, refilling the ladle and taking another drink. "Those two remind me of nothing so
much as a brother and sister at times."
Sleete smiled.
Gawyn replaced the ladle, nodded to Corbet, then moved to leave. He wanted to check on the Younglings'
evening meal and make certain it was being distributed properly. Some of the youths had taken to
sparring and practicing when they should have been eating.
As he left, however, Sleete reached out and took his arm. Gawyn looked back in surprise.
"Hattori only has one Warder," the man said in his gravelly, soft voice.
Gawyn nodded. "That's not unheard-of for a Green."
"It isn't because she isn't open to having more," Sleete said. "Years ago, when she bonded me, she said
that she would only take another if I judged him worthy. She asked me to search. She doesn't think much
on these kinds of things. Too busy with other matters."
All right, Gawyn thought, wondering why he was being told this.
Sleete turned, meeting Gawyn's eyes. "It's been over ten years, but I've found someone worthy. She will
bond you this hour, if you wish it."
Gawyn blinked in surprise at Sleete. The lanky man was shrouded once more in his color-shifting cloak,
wearing nondescript brown and green beneath. Others complained that because of his long hair and
sideburns, Sleete looked more scruffy than a Warder should. But "scruffy" was the wrong term for this
man. Rough, perhaps, but natural. Like uncut stones or a gnarled—yet sturdy—oak.
"I'm honored, Sleete," Gawyn said. "But I came to the White Tower to study because of Andoran
traditions, not because I was going to be a Warder. My place is beside my sister." And if anyone is going
to bond me, it will be Egwene.
"You came for those reasons," Sleete said, "but those reasons have passed. You've fought in our war,
you've killed Warders and defended the Tower. You are one of us. You belong with us."
Gawyn hesitated.
AN OFFER AND A DEPARTURE
217
"You search," Sleete said. "Like a hawk, glancing this way and that, trying to decide whether to perch or
to hunt. You'll tire of flying eventually. Join us, and become one of us. You'll find that Hattori is a good
Aes Sedai. Wiser than most, far less prone to squabbles or foolishness than many in the Tower."
"I can't, Sleete," Gawyn said, shaking his head. "Andor. ..."
"Hattori is not regarded as influential by the White Tower," Sleete said. "The others rarely care what she
does. To have you, she'd see herself assigned to Andor. You could have both, Gawyn Trakand. Think on
it."
Gawyn hesitated again, then nodded. "Very well. I'll think on it."
Sleete released his arm. "As much as a man can ask."
Gawyn moved to leave, but then stopped, looking back toward Sleete in the dusty barn. Then Gawyn
gestured toward Corbet and gestured with a curt sign. Leave and watch, it meant. The Youngling nodded
eagerly—he was one of the youngest among them, always looking for something to do to prove himself.
He'd watch the doors and give warning if anyone approached.
Sleete watched with curiosity as Corbet positioned himself, hand on his sword. Gawyn then stepped
forward and spoke more quietly, too soft for Corbet to hear. "What do you think of what happened in the
Tower, Sleete?"
The rough man frowned, then stepped back and leaned against the inside barn wall. With a glance during
the casual move, Sleete checked out the window to make certain nobody was listening from that side.
"It's bad," Sleet finally said, tone hushed. "Warder shouldn't fight Warder. Aes Sedai shouldn't fight Aes
Sedai. Should never happen. Not now. Not ever."
"But it did," Gawyn said.
Sleete nodded.
"And now we've got two different groups of Aes Sedai," Gawyn continued, "with two different armies,
one besieging the other."
"Just keep your head down," Sleete said. "There are hot tempers in the Tower, but there are wise minds as
well. They'll do the right thing."
"Which is?"
"End it," Sleete said. "With killing if necessary, other ways if possible. Nothing is worth this division.
Nothing."
Gawyn nodded.
Sleete shook his head. "My Aes Sedai, she didn't like the feel of things in the Tower. Wanted to get out.
She's wise . . . wise and crafty. But she's
218
THE GATHERING STORM
also not influential, so the others don't listen to her. Aes Sedai. Sometimes, all they seem to care about is
who carries the biggest stick."
Gawyn leaned closer. One rarely heard talk about Aes Sedai ranking and influence. They didn't have
ranks, like the military, but they all instinctively knew who among them was in charge. How did it work?
Sleete seemed to have some idea, but he didn't talk further on it, so it would have to remain a mystery for
now.
"Hattori got out," Sleete continued softly. "Went on this mission to al'Thor, never knowing the depth of
what it was about. She just didn't want to be in the Tower. Wise woman." He sighed, standing upright and
laying a hand on Gawyn's shoulder. "Hammar was a good man."
"He was," Gawyn said, feeling a twist in his stomach.
"But he would have killed you," Sleete said. "Killed you cleanly and quickly. He was the one on the
offensive, not you. He understood why you did what you did. Nobody made any good decisions that day.
There weren't any good decisions to be made."
"I . . ." Gawyn just nodded. "Thank you."
Sleete removed his hand and walked toward the entrance. He glanced back, however. "Some say that
Hattori should have gone back for me," he said. "Those Younglings of yours, they think she abandoned
me at Dumai's Wells. She didn't. She knew I lived. She knew I hurt. But she also trusted me to do my
duty while she did hers. She needed to get news to the Greens of what had happened at Dumai's Wells, of
what the Amyrlin's true orders with al'Thor had entailed. / needed to survive. We did our duty. But once
that message had been sent, if she hadn't felt me approaching on my own, she would have come for me.
No matter what. And we both know it."
With that, he left. Gawyn was left thinking on the curious parting words. Sleete was often an odd one to
talk to. As fluid as he was as a swordsman, he didn't make conversation smoothly.
Gawyn shook his head, leaving the barn and waving Corbet free of watch duty. There was no possibility
of Gawyn agreeing to become Hat-tori's Warder. The offer had been tempting for a heartbeat, but only as
a way of escaping his problems. He knew that he would not be happy as her Warder, or anyone's Warder
save Egwene's.
He'd promised Egwene anything. Anything, as long as it didn't hurt Andor or Elayne. Light, he'd
promised her not to kill al'Thor. At least, not until after Gawyn could prove for certain that the Dragon
had killed
AN OFFER AND A DEPARTURE
219
his mother. Why couldn't Egwene see that the man she'd grown up with had turned into a monster, twisted
by the One Power? Al'Thor needed to be put down. For the good of them all.
Gawyn clenched and unclenched his fist, stalking across the village center, wishing he could extend the
peace and stillness of sword fighting to the rest of his life. The air was pungent with the scent of cows and
dung from the barns; he would be glad to get back to a proper city. Dorian's size and remoteness might
make it a good place to hide, but Gawyn strongly wished that Elaida had chosen a less odorous place to
house the Younglings. His clothing seemed likely to carry the scent of cattle for the rest of his
days—assuming the rebel army didn't discover and slaughter them all in the next few weeks.
Gawyn shook his head as he approached the mayor's house. The two-story building had a peaked roof and
sat at the very center of the village. The main body of the Younglings was camped in the small field out
behind the building. Once, that patch had grown blackberries, but the too-hot summer followed by the
blizzard of a winter had killed the bushes. They were one of many casualties that were going to lead to an
even harsher winter this year.
The field wasn't the best place to camp—the men were constantly grumping about picking blackberry
thorns out of their skin—but it was close to the center of the village while yet somewhat secluded. A few
thorns were worth the convenience.
To reach the field, Gawyn had to cut across the unpaved village square and pass by the canal that ran past
the front of the mayor's house. He nodded to a group of women washing clothes there. The Aes Sedai had
recruited them to do the wash for the Sisters and for Gawyn's officers. The pay was small for so much
work, and Gawyn gave the women what little extra he could afford out of his own pocket, a gesture that
had earned him laughter from Narenwin Sedai, but thanks from the village women. Gawyn's mother had
always taught that the workers were the spine of a kingdom; break them, and you'd soon find that you
could no longer move. This city's people might not be his sister's subjects, but he would not see them
taken advantage of by his troops.
He passed the mayor's home, noting the closed shutters on the windows. Marlesh lounged outside, his
petite Aes Sedai standing with hands on her hips and scowling at the door. Apparently, she had been
refused entry. Why? Vasha didn't have a great deal of rank among the Aes Sedai,
220
THE GATHERING STORM
but she also wasn't as low as Hattori. If Vasha had been denied entrance . . . well, perhaps there were
important words being shared inside the building. That made Gawyn curious.
His men would have ignored it—Rajar would have told him that Aes Sedai business was best left to their
conferences, without unwanted ears flapping to make a mess of things. That was one reason that Gawyn
wouldn't make a good Warder. He didn't trust Aes Sedai. His mother had, and look where that had gotten
her. And how the White Tower had treated Elayne and Egwene . . . well, he might support the Aes Sedai,
but he certainly didn't trust them.
He rounded the back of the building, going about a perfectly legitimate inspection of the guards. Most of
the Aes Sedai in the village didn't have Warders—either they were Reds or they had left their Warders
behind. Some few were old enough to have lost Warders to age and never chosen new ones. Two
unfortunate women had lost their Warders at Du-mai's Wells. Gawyn and the others did their best to
pretend they didn't notice the red eyes or occasional sobs coming from their rooms.
The Aes Sedai, of course, claimed that they didn't need the Youngling guards as protection. They were
probably right. But Gawyn had seen dead Aes Sedai at Dumai's Wells; they weren't invincible.
At the back doors, Hal Moir saluted and let Gawyn enter to continue his inspection. Gawyn strode up a
short, straight set of stairs and entered the upper hallway. There, he relieved Berden, the dark-skinned
Tairen Youngling who was on watch. Berden was an officer, and Gawyn told him to go check on the food
distribution in the camp. The man nodded, then left.
Gawyn hesitated in front of Narenwin Sedai's room. If he wanted to hear what was going on between the
Aes Sedai, the obvious thing to do would be to eavesdrop. Berden had been the only guard on the second
floor, and there were no Warders to protect against unwanted ears. But the thought of listening in left a
sour taste in Gawyn's mouth. He shouldn't have to eavesdrop. He was the commander of the Younglings,
and the Aes Sedai were taking good advantage of his troops. They owed him information. Therefore,
rather than trying to listen, he gave a firm knock on the door.
The knock was met by silence. Then the door cracked to show a sliver of Covarla's frowning face. The
light-haired Red had been in charge of the sisters in the city before being displaced, but she was still one
of the more important women in Dorian.
AN OFFER AND A DEPARTURE
221
"We were not to be interrupted," she snapped through the sliver of open doorway. "Your soldiers had
orders to keep everyone out, even other sisters."
"Those rules don't apply to me," Gawyn said, meeting her eyes. "My men are in serious danger in this
city. If you won't let me be part of the planning, then I demand at least to be able to listen."
Covarla's impassive face seemed to show annoyance. "Your impudence seems to grow by the day, child,"
she said. "Perhaps you need to be removed and a more suitable replacement raised to captain that group."
Gawyn clenched his jaw.
"You think they wouldn't set you aside if a sister asked it of them?" Covarla asked, smiling faintly. "A
sorry excuse for an army they may be, but they know their place. A pity the same cannot be said for their
commander. Go back to your men, Gawyn Trakand."
With that, she shut the door on him.
Gawyn itched to force his way into the room. But that would be satisfying for all of about two breaths,
which was how long it would take the Aes Sedai to truss him up with the Power. How would that be for
the Younglings' morale? Seeing their commander, the brave Gawyn Trakand, cast out of the building with
a gag of Air in his mouth? He ignored his frustration, turning back down the stairs. He went into the
kitchen and leaned against the far wall, staring at the steps to the second floor. Now that he'd relieved
Berden, he felt he needed to remain on watch himself or send a runner to fetch another man. He wanted to
think for a few moments first; if their conference above took long, he'd appoint a replacement.
Aes Sedai. Sensible men stayed away from them when possible, and obeyed them with alacrity when
staying away was impossible. Gawyn had trouble doing either; his bloodline prevented staying away, his
pride interfered with obeying them. He had supported Elaida in the rebellion not because he liked
her—she'd always been cold during her years acting as his mother's advisor. No, he'd supported her
because he'd disliked Siuan's treatment of his sister and Egwene.
But would Elaida have treated the girls any better? Would any of them have? Gawyn had made his
decision in a moment of passion; it hadn't been the coolheaded act of loyalty that his men assumed.
Where was his loyalty, then?
A few minutes later, footsteps on the stairs and faint voices from the hallway above announced that the
Aes Sedai had finished their secret conference. Covarla came down the stairs in red and yellow, saying
something
222
THE GATHERING STORM
to the sisters behind her. "... can't believe the rebels set up their own Amyrlin."
Narenwin—thin and square-faced—came next, nodding. Then, shockingly, Katerine Alruddin walked out
of the stairwell behind them. Gawyn stood up straight, stunned. Katerine had left the camp weeks before,
the day after Narenwin's arrival. The raven-haired Red had not been part of the original group that was
ordered to Dorian, and had used that as an excuse to return to the White Tower.
When had she come back to Dorian? How had she come back? His men would have reported to Gawyn if
they'd seen her. He doubted the watchposts could have missed her arrival.
She eyed Gawyn as the three Aes Sedai passed through the kitchen, smiling slyly. She'd noticed his
shock.
"Yes," Katerine said, turning to Covarla. "Imagine it—an Amyrlin without an actual seat to sit upon!
They're a group of foolish girls creating a child's puppet show with dolls dressed up like their betters. Of
course they would pick a wilder to do the duty, and a mere Accepted at that. They knew how pathetic the
decision was."
"But at least she was captured," Narenwin noted, pausing at the doorway as Covarla passed through.
Katerine laughed sharply. "Captured and made to howl half the day. I wouldn't want to be that al'Vere girl
right now. Of course, it's no less than she deserves for letting them put the Amyrlin's shawl on her
shoulders."
What? Gawyn thought with shock.
The three passed out of the kitchen, voices fading. Gawyn barely noticed. He staggered back, hitting the
wall for support. It couldn't be! It sounded like . . . Egwene . . . He had to have misheard!
But Aes Sedai couldn't lie. He'd heard rumors that the rebels had their own Hall and Amyrlin . . . but
Egwene? It was ridiculous! She was only Accepted!
But who better to set up for a potential fall? Perhaps none of the sisters had been willing to put their necks
on the line by taking the title. A younger woman like Egwene would have made a perfect pawn.
Pulling himself together, Gawyn hurried out of the kitchen and after the Aes Sedai. He passed into the late
afternoon to find Vasha standing, mouth drooping, as she stared at Katerine. Apparently, Gawyn wasn't
the only one shocked by the Red's sudden return.
Gawyn caught Tando, one of the Youngling guards at the front of the building, by the arm. "Did you see
her enter the building?"
AN OFFER AND A DEPARTURE
223
The young Andoran shook his head. "No, my Lord. One of the men inside reported seeing her meet with
the other Aes Sedai—she came down out of the attic suddenly, it seems. But none of the guards knows
how she got in!"
Gawyn released the soldier and dashed after Katerine. He caught up to the three women in the middle of
the dusty town square. All three turned ageless faces toward him, wearing identical thin-mouthed frowns.
Covarla's eyes were particular harsh, but Gawyn didn't care if they took the Younglings from him or if
they tied him up in air. Humiliation didn't matter. Only one thing mattered.
"Is it true?" he demanded. Then, cringing, he forced respect into his voice. "Please, Katerine Sedai. Is it
true what I overheard you saying about the rebels and their Amyrlin?"
She eyed him, measuring him. "I suppose it would be good to pass this news among your soldiers. Yes,
the rebel Amyrlin has been captured."
"And her name?" Gawyn asked.
"Egwene al'Vere," Katerine said. "Let the rumors spread truth, for once." She nodded to him with
dismissive curtness, then began walking with the other two again. "Put what I have taught you to good
use. The Amyrlin insists that the raids be stepped up, and these weaves should lend you unprecedented
mobility. Don't be surprised if the rebels anticipate you, however. They know that we have their so-called
Amyrlin, and have probably guessed that we have the new weaves as well. It won't be long before
Traveling is had by all. Use the edge you've been given before it dulls."
Gawyn was barely listening. A piece of his mind was shocked. Traveling? A thing of legends. Was that
how Gareth Bryne was keeping his army supplied?
However, the greater part of Gawyn's brain was still numb. Siuan Sanche had been stilled and slated for
execution, and she had simply been a deposed Amyrlin. What would they do with a false Amyrlin, a
leader of a rebel faction?
Made to howl half the day. . , .
Egwene was being tortured. She would be stilled! She probably had been already. After that, she would
be executed. Gawyn watched the three Aes Sedai walk away. Then he turned slowly, strangely calm,
laying his hand on the pommel of his sword.
Egwene was in trouble. He blinked deliberately, standing in the square, cattle calling distantly, water
bubbling in the canal beside him.
224
Egwene would be executed.
Where is your loyalty, Gawyn Trakand?
THE GATHERING STORM
He crossed the village, walking with a strangely sure step. The Younglings would be unreliable in an
action against the White Tower. He couldn't use them to mount a rescue. But he was unlikely to be able to
manage one on his own. That left him with only one option.
Ten minutes later found him in his tent, carefully packing his saddlebags. Most of his things would have
to stay. There were far scout outposts, and he had visited them before in surprise inspections. That would
make a good excuse for him to leave the camp.
He couldn't arouse suspicions. Covarla was right. The Younglings followed him. They respected him. But
they were not his—they belonged to the White Tower, and would turn on him as quickly as he had turned
on Hammar if it were the will of the Amyrlin. If any of them got a hint of what he was planning, he
wouldn't manage to get a hundred yards away.
He closed and latched his saddlebags. That would have to do. He pushed his way out of the tent, slinging
the bags over his shoulder, then made his way toward the horse lines. As he walked, he flagged down
Ra-jar, who was showing a squad of soldiers some advanced swordplay techniques. Rajar set another man
in charge, then hurried over to Gawyn, frowning at the saddlebags.
"I'm going to inspect the fourth outpost," Gawyn said.
Rajar glanced at the sky; it was already dimming. "So late?"
"Last time I inspected in the morning," Gawyn said. Odd, how his heart wasn't racing. Calm and even.
"Time before that, it was the afternoon. But the most dangerous time to be surprised is evening, when it's
still light enough for an attack but late enough that men are tired and full of supper."
Rajar nodded, joining Gawyn as he walked. "Light knows we need them for watchful scouts now," he
agreed. Bryne's own scouts had been investigating villages not half a day's ride from Dorian. "I'll get you
an escort."
"Not needed," Gawyn said. "Last time, Outpost Four saw me coming from a good half a mile. A squad
raises too much dust. I want to see how keen their eyes are when it's just one rider."
Rajar frowned again.
"I'll be safe," Gawyn said, forcing out a wry smile. "Rajar, you know I will be. What? Are you afraid I'll
be taken by bandits?"
AN OFFER AND A DEPARTURE
225
Rajar relaxed, chuckling. "You? They'd sooner catch Sleete. All right, then. But make certain to send a
messenger for me when you get back into camp. I'll stay up half the night worrying if you don't return."
Sorry to cost you the sleep then, my friend, Gawyn thought, nodding. Rajar ran back to supervise the
sparring, and Gawyn soon found himself just outside the camp, undoing Challenge's hobble as a village
boy— doubling as a stablehand—fetched his saddle.
"You have the look of a man who has made up his mind," a quiet voice said suddenly.
Gawyn spun, hand falling to his sword. One of the shadows nearby was moving. Looking closely, he was
able to make out the form of a shadowed man with a crooked nose. Curse those Warder cloaks!
Gawyn tried to feign casualness as he had with Rajar. "Happy to have something to do, I suppose," he
said, turning from Sleete as the stableboy approached. Gawyn tossed him a copper and took the saddle
himself, dismissing the boy.
Sleete continued to watch from the shadow of a massive pine as Gawyn put the saddle on Challenge's
back. The Warder knew. Gawyn's act had fooled everyone else, but he could sense that it wouldn't work
on this man. Light! Was he going to have to kill another man he respected? Burn you, Elaida! Burn you,
Siuan Sanche, and your entire Tower. Stop using people. Stop using me!
"When shall I tell your men that you aren't returning?" Sleete asked.
Gawyn pulled the saddle straps tight and waited for his horse to exhale. He looked over Challenge,
frowning. "You don't plan to stop me?"
Sleete chuckled. "I fought you thrice today and didn't win a single bout, although I had a good man to
lend me aid. You have the look about you of a man who will kill if needed, and I don't thirst for death so
eagerly as some might assume."
"You'd fight me," Gawyn said, finally doing up the saddle and lifting the bags into place, tying them on.
Challenge snorted. The horse never did like carrying extra weight. "You'd die if you thought it was
necessary. If you attacked, even if I killed you, it would raise a ruckus. I'd never be able to explain why
I'd killed a Warder. You could stop me."
"True," Sleete said.
"Then why let me go?" Gawyn said, rounding the gelding and taking the reins. He met those shadowed
eyes and thought he caught the faintest hint of a smile on the lips beneath them.
226
THE GATHERING STORM
"Perhaps I just like to see men care," Sleete said. "Perhaps I hope you'll find a way to help end this.
Perhaps I am feeling lazy and sore with a bruised spirit from so many defeats. May you find what you
seek, young Trakand." And with a rustle of the cloak, Sleete withdrew, fading into the darkness of
oncoming night.
Gawyn slung himself into his saddle. There was only one place he could think to go for help in rescuing
Egwene.
With a kick of the heels, he left Dorian behind.
CHAPTER
14
A Box Opens
o this is one of the Shadowsouled," Sorilea said. The white-haired Wise One circled around the
prisoner, looking thoughtfully at Semirhage. Of course, Cadsuane had not expected fear from one such
as Sorilea. The Aiel woman was a rugged creature, like a statue that had weathered storm after storm,
patient before the winds. Among the Aiel, this Wise One was a particular specimen of strength. She had
arrived at the manor house only recently, coming with those who had brought al'Thor a report from
Bandar Eban.
Cadsuane had anticipated finding many things among the Aiel who followed Rand al'Thor: fierce
warriors, strange ways, honor and loyalty, inexperience with subtlety and politics. She had been right.
One thing she had certainly not expected to find, however, was an equal. Certainly not in a Wise One who
could barely channel. And yet, oddly, that was how she regarded the leathery-faced Aiel woman.
Not that she trusted Sorilea. The Wise One had her own goals, and they might not completely coincide
with Cadsuane's. However, she did find Sorilea capable, and there were blessed few people in the world
these days who deserved that word.
Semirhage flinched suddenly, and Sorilea cocked her head. The Forsaken was not floating this time; she
stood upright, wearing the stiff brown dress, her short, dark hair tangled from lack of brushing. She still
227
228
THE GATHERING STORM
projected superiority and control. Just as Cadsuane herself would have in a similar situation.
"What are these weaves?" Sorilea asked, gesturing. The weaves in question were the source of
Semirhage's occasional flinching.
"A personal trick of mine," Cadsuane said, undoing the weaves and remaking them to show how they
were done. "They ring a sound in your subjects' ears every few minutes and flash a light in their eyes,
keeping them from sleep."
"You hope to make her so fatigued that she will talk," Sorilea said, studying the Forsaken again.
Semirhage was warded to keep her from hearing them, of course. Despite two days without decent sleep,
the woman wore a serene expression, eyes open but blocked by glowing lights. She had likely mastered
some kind of mental trick to help her stave off exhaustion.
"I doubt it will break her," Cadsuane admitted. "Phaw! It barely even makes her flinch." She, Sorilea and
Bair—an aged Wise One with no channeling ability—were the only ones in the room. The Aes Sedai
maintaining Semirhage's shield sat in their places outside.
Sorilea nodded. "One of the Shadowsouled will not be manipulated so easily. Still, you are wise to try,
considering your . . . limitations."
"We could speak to the Car'a'cam" Bair said. "Convince him to turn this one over to us for a time. A few
days of... delicate Aiel questioning and she would speak whatever you wish."
Cadsuane smiled noncommittally. As if she would let another handle the questioning! This woman's
secrets were too valuable to risk, even in the hands of allies. "Well, you are welcome to ask," she said,
"but I doubt al'Thor will listen. You know how the fool boy can be when it comes to hurting women."
Bair sighed. It was odd to think of this grandmotherly lady engaging in "delicate Aiel questioning."
"Yes," She said. "You are right, I suspect. Rand al'Thor is twice as stubborn as any clan chief I've known.
And twice as arrogant too. To presume that women cannot bear pain as well as men!"
Cadsuane snorted at that. "To be honest, I considered having this one strung up and whipped, al'Thor's
prohibitions be blackened! But I don't think it would work. Phaw! We'll need to find something other than
pain to break this one."
Sorilea was still regarding Semirhage. "I would speak with her."
Cadsuane made a motion, dismissing the weaves that kept Semirhage
A Box OPENS
229
from hearing, seeing or speaking. The woman blinked—just once—to clear her vision, then turned to
Sorilea and Bair. "Ah," she said. "Aiel. You were such good servants, once. Tell me, how strongly does it
bite, knowing how you betrayed your oaths? Your ancestors would cry for punishment if they knew how
many deaths lay at the hands of their descendants."
Sorilea gave no reaction. Cadsuane knew some tidbits of what al'Thor had revealed about the Aiel, things
that had been said at second or third hand. Al'Thor claimed that the Aiel had once followed the Way of
the Leaf, sworn not to do harm, before betraying their oaths. Cadsuane had been interested to learn of
these rumors, and she was more interested to hear Semirhage corroborating them.
"She seems so much more human than I had anticipated," Sorilea said to Bair. "Her expressions, her tone,
her accent, while strange, are easy to understand. I had not expected that."
Semirhage's eyes narrowed for just a moment at that comment. Odd. That was a stronger reaction than
virtually any of the punishments had produced. The flashes of light and sound prompted only slight
involuntary twitches. This comment of Sorilea's, however, seemed to affect Semirhage on an emotional
level. Would the Wise Ones actually succeed so easily where Cadsuane had long failed?
"I think this is what we need to remember," Bair said. "A woman is just a woman, no matter how old, no
matter what secrets she remembers. Flesh can be cut, blood can be spilled, bones can be broken."
"In truth, I feel almost disappointed, Cadsuane Melaidhrin," Sorilea said, shaking a white-haired head.
"This monster has very small fangs."
Semirhage reacted no further. Her control was back, her face serene, her eyes imperious. "I have heard
some little of you new, oathless Aiel and your interpretations of honor. I will very much enjoy
investigating how much pain and suffering it will require before members of your clans will shame
themselves. Tell me, how far do you think I would have to push before one of you would kill a
blacksmith and dine on his flesh?"
She knew more than "some little" if she understood the near-sacred nature of blacksmiths among the Aiel.
Sorilea stiffened at the comment, but let it go. She rewove the ward against listening, then paused, and
placed the globes of light in front of Semirhage's eyes as well. Yes, she was weak in the Power, but she
was a very quick learner.
"Is it wise to keep her like this?" Sorilea asked, her tone implying that of any other she would have made
a demand. For Cadsuane, she softened her words, and it almost brought a smile to Cadsuane's lips. They
230
THE GATHERING STORM
were like two aged hawks, Sorilea and she, accustomed to roosting and reigning, now forced to nest in
neighboring trees. Deference did not come easily to either one of them.
"If I were to choose," Sorilea continued, "I think that I would have her throat slit and her corpse laid out
on the dust to dry. Keeping her alive is like keeping a snapwood blacklance as a pet."
"Phaw!" Cadsuane said, grimacing. "You're right about the danger, but killing her now would be worse.
Al'Thor cannot—or will not—give me an accurate count of the number of Forsaken he has slain, but he
implies that at least half of them still live. They'll be there to fight at the Last Battle, and each weave we
learn from Semirhage is one fewer they can use to surprise us."
Sorilea did not seem convinced, but she pressed the issue no further. "And the item?" she asked. "May I
see it?"
Cadsuane almost snapped a no. But . . . Sorilea had taught Cadsuane Traveling, an incredibly powerful
tool. That had been an offering, a hand extended. Cadsuane needed to work with these women, Sorilea
most of all. Al'Thor was a bigger project than one woman could handle.
"Come with me," Cadsuane said, leaving the wooden room. The Wise Ones followed. Outside, Cadsuane
instructed the sisters—Daigian and Sarene—to make certain that Semirhage was kept awake, eyes open.
It was unlikely to work, but it was the best strategy Cadsuane had at the moment.
Though . . . she did also have Semirhage's momentary look, that hint of anger, displayed at Sorilea's
comment. When you could control a person's anger, you could control their other emotions as well. That
was why she had focused so hard on teaching al'Thor to rein in his temper.
Control and anger. What was it that Sorilea had said to get the reaction? That Semirhage seemed
disappointingly human. It was as if Sorilea had come expecting one of the Forsaken to be as twisted as a
Myrddraal or Draghkar. And why not? The Forsaken had been figures of legend for three thousand years,
looming shadows of darkness and mystery. It could be disappointing to discover that they were, in many
ways, the most human of the Dark One's followers: petty, destructive and argumentative. At least, that
was how al'Thor claimed they acted. He was so strangely familiar with them.
Semirhage saw herself as more than human, though. That poise, that control of her surroundings, was a
source of strength for her.
Cadsuane shook her head. Too many problems and far too little time.
A Box OPENS
231
The wooden hallway itself was another reminder of the al'Thor boy's foolishness; Cadsuane could still
smell smoke, strong enough to be unpleasant. The gaping hole in the front of the manor—draped only
with a cloth—let in chill air during the spring nights. They should have moved, but he claimed that he
would not be chased away.
Al'Thor seemed almost eager for the Last Battle. Or perhaps just resigned. To get there he felt he had to
force his way through the petty squabbles of people like a midnight traveler pushing through banks of
snow to arrive at the inn. The problem was, al'Thor wasn't ready for the Last Battle. Cadsuane could feel
it in the way he spoke, the way he acted. The way he regarded the world with that dark, nearly dazed
expression. If the man he was now faced the Dark One to decide the fate of the world, Cadsuane feared
for all people.
Cadsuane and the two Wise Ones reached her chamber in the manor, a sturdy undamaged room with a
good view of the trampled green and camp out front. She made few demands in the way of decoration: a
stout bed, a lockable trunk, a mirror and stand. She was too old and impatient to bother with anything
else.
The trunk was a decoy; she kept some gold and other relatively worthless items in it. Her most precious
possessions she either wore—in the form of her ter'angreal ornaments—or kept locked in a dingy-looking
document box that sat on her mirror stand. Of worn oak, the stain uneven, the box had enough dings and
dents to look used—but wasn't so shabby as to be out of place with her other things. As Sorilea closed the
door behind the three of them, Cadsuane disarmed the box's traps.
It was strange to her how few Aes Sedai learned to innovate with the One Power. They memorized
time-tested and traditional weaves, but gave barely a thought for what else they could do. True,
experimenting with the One Power could be disastrous, but many simple extrapolations could be made
without danger. Her weave for this box was one such. Until recently, she'd used a standard weave of Fire,
Spirit and Air to destroy any documents in the box if an intruder opened it. Effective, if a bit
unimaginative.
Her new weave was much more versatile. It didn't destroy the items in the box—Cadsuane wasn't certain
if they could be destroyed. Instead, the weaves—inverted to be invisible—sprang out in twisting threads
of Air and captured anyone in the room when the box was opened. Then another weave set out a large
sound, imitating a hundred trumpets playing while lights flashed in the air to give the alarm. The weaves
would also
232
THE GATHERING STORM
go off if anyone opened the box, moved it, or barely touched it with the most delicate thread of the One
Power.
Cadsuane flipped up the lid. The extreme precaution was necessary. For inside this box were two items
that presented very serious danger.
Sorilea walked over, looking in at the contents. One was a figurine of a wise, bearded man holding aloft a
sphere, about a foot tall. The other was a a black metallic collar and two bracelets: an a'dam made for a
man. With this ter'angreal, a woman could turn a man who could channel into her slave, controlling his
ability to touch the One Power. Perhaps controlling him completely. They had not tested the collar.
Al'Thor had forbidden it.
Sorilea hissed quietly, ignoring the statue and focusing on the bracelets and collar. "This thing is evil."
"Yes," Cadsuane said. Rarely would she have called a simple object "evil," but this one was. "Nynaeve
al'Meara claims some familiarity with this thing. Though I have not been able to press out of the girl how
she knows these things, she claims to know that there was only one male a'dam, and that she'd arranged
for its disposal in the ocean. She also admits, however, that she didn't see it destroyed personally. It may
have been used as a pattern by the Seanchan."
"This is unsettling to see," Sorilea said. "If one of the Shadowsouled, or even one of the Seanchan,
captured him with this. . . ."
"Light protect us all," Bair whispered.
"And the people who have these are the same people with whom al'Thor wishes to make peace?" Sorilea
shook her head. "Creation of these abominations alone should warrant a blood feud. I heard that there
were others like it. What of those?"
"Stored elsewhere," Cadsuane said, shutting the lid. "Along with the female a'dam we took. Some
acquaintances of mine—Aes Sedai who have retired from the world—are testing them trying to discover
their weakness." They also had Callandor. Cadsuane was loath to let it out of her sight, but she felt that
the sword still held secrets that could be teased out.
"I keep this one here because I intend to find a way to test it on a man," she said. "That would be the best
way to discover its weaknesses. Al'Thor won't allow any of his Asha'man to be leashed by it, however.
Not for the shortest time."
This made Bair uncomfortable. "A little like testing a spear's strength by stabbing it into someone," she
muttered.
A Box OPENS
233
Sorilea, however, nodded in agreement. She understood.
One of the first things Cadsuane had done after capturing those female a'dam was put one on and practice
ways to escape from it. She'd done so under carefully controlled circumstances, of course, with women
she trusted to help her escape. They'd eventually had to do that. Cadsuane had been able to discover no
way out on her own.
But if your enemy was planning to do something to you, you had to discover how to counter it. Even if
that meant leashing yourself. Al'Thor couldn't see this. When she asked, he simply muttered about "that
bloody box" and being beaten.
"We have to do something about that man," Sorilea said, meeting Cadsuane's eyes. "He has grown worse
since we last met."
"He has," Cadsuane said. "He's surprisingly accomplished at ignoring my training."
"Then let us discuss," Sorilea said, pulling over a stool. "A plan must be arranged. For the good of all."
"For the good of all," Cadsuane agreed. "Al'Thor himself most of all."
CHAPTER 15
A Place to Begin
Rand woke on the floor of a hallway. He sat up, listening to the distant sound of water. The stream
outside the manor house? No . . . no, that was wrong. The walls and floor here were stone, not wood. No
candles or lamps hung from the stonework, and yet there was light, ambient in the air.
He stood, then straightened his red coat, feeling strangely unafraid. He recognized this place from
somewhere, distant in his memory. How had he come here? The recent past was clouded, and seemed to
slip from him, like fading trails of mist. . . .
No, he thought firmly. His memories obeyed, snapping back into place before the strength of his
determination. He had been in the Do-mani manor house, awaiting a report from Rhuarc about the capture
of the first few members of the merchant council. Min had been reading Each Castle, a biography, in the
deep, green chair of the room they shared.
Rand had been exhausted, as he often was lately. He'd gone to lie down. He was asleep, then. Was this the
World of Dreams? Though he had visited it on occasion, he knew very few specifics. Egwene and the
Aiel dreamwalkers spoke of it only guardedly.
This place felt different from the dream world, and oddly familiar. He looked down the hallway; it was so
long that it vanished into shadows, walls broken by doors at intervals, the wood dry and cracked. Yes . . .
2
34
A PLACE TO BEGIN
235
he thought, seizing at a memory. / have been here before, but not in a long time.
He chose one of the doors at random—he knew that it wouldn't matter which one he picked—and pushed
it open. There was a room beyond, of modest size. The far side was a series of gray stone arches, beyond
them a little courtyard and a sky of burning red clouds. The clouds grew and sprang from one another like
bubbles in boiling water. They were the clouds of an impending storm, unnatural though they were.
He looked more closely, and saw that each new cloud formed the shape of a tormented face, the mouth
open in a silent scream. The cloud would swell, expanding upon itself, face distorting, jaw working,
cheeks twisting, eyes bulging. Then it would split, other faces swelling out of its surface, yelling and
seething. It was transfixing and horrifying at the same time.
There was no ground beyond the courtyard. Just that terrible sky.
Rand did not want to look toward the left side of the room. The fireplace was there. The stones that
formed floor, hearth and columns were warped, as if they had been melted by an extreme heat. At the
edges of his vision, they seemed to shift and change. The angles and proportions of the room were wrong.
Just as they had been when he'd come here, long ago.
Something was different this time, however. Something about the colors. Many of the stones were black,
as if they'd been burned, and cracks laced them. Distant red light glowed from within, as if they had cores
of molten lava. There had once been a table here, hadn't there? Polished and of fine wood, its ordinary
lines a discomforting contrast to the distorted angles of the stones?
The table was gone, but two chairs sat before the fireplace, high backed and facing the flames, obscuring
whomever might be sitting in them. Rand forced himself to walk forward, his boots clicking on stones
that burned. He felt no heat, either from them or the fire. His breath caught and his heart pounded as he
approached those chairs. He feared what he would find.
He rounded them. A man sat in the chair on the left. Tall and youthful, he had a square face and ancient
blue eyes that reflected the hearth-fire, turning his irises almost purple. The other chair was empty. Rand
walked to it and sat down, calming his heart and watching the dancing flames. He had seen this man
before in visions, not unlike the ones that appeared when he thought of Mat or Perrin.
The colors did not appear on this thought of his friends. That was
236
THE GATHERING STORM
odd, but somehow not unexpected. The visions he'd seen of the man in the other chair were different from
the ones involving Perrin and Mat. They were more visceral, somehow, more real. At times during those
visions, Rand had felt almost as if he could reach out and touch this man. He'd been afraid of what would
happen if he did.
He had met the man only once. At Shadar Logoth. The stranger had saved Rand's life, and Rand had often
wondered who he had been. Now, in this place, Rand finally knew.
"You are dead," Rand whispered. "I killed you."
The man didn't look from the fire as he laughed. It was a rough, low-throated laugh that held little true
mirth. Once, Rand had known this man only as Ba'alzamon—a name for the Dark One—and had
foolishly thought that in killing him, he had defeated the Shadow for good.
"I watched you die," Rand said. "I stabbed you through the chest with Callandor. Isha—"
"That is not my name," the man interrupted, still watching the flames. "I am known as Moridin, now."
"The name is irrelevant," Rand said angrily. "You are dead, and this is just a dream."
"Just a dream," Moridin said, chuckling. "Yes." The man was clad in a black coat and trousers, the
darkness relieved only by red embroidery on the sleeves.
Moridin finally looked at him. Flames from the fire cast bright red and orange light across his angular
face and unblinking eyes. "Why do you always whine that way? Just a dream. Do you not know that
many dreams are more truthful than the waking world?"
"You are dead," Rand repeated stubbornly.
"So are you. I watched you die, you know. Lashing out in a tempest, creating an entire mountain to mark
your cairn. So arrogant."
Lews Therin had—upon discovering that he'd killed all that he loved—drawn upon the One Power and
destroyed himself, creating Drag-onmount in the process. Mention of this event always brought on howls
of grief and anger in Rand's mind.
But this time, there was silence.
Moridin turned back to watch the heatless flames. To the side, in the stones of the fireplace, Rand saw
movement. Flickering bits of shadow, just barely visible through the cracks in the stones. The red-hot heat
shone behind, like rock turned molten, and those shadows moved, frantic. Just faintly, Rand could hear
scratching. Rats, he realized. There were rats
A PLACE TO BEGIN
237
behind the stones, being consumed by the terrible heat trapped on the other side. Their claws scratched,
pushing through the cracks, as they tried to escape their burning.
Some of those tiny hands seemed almost human. Just a dream, Rand told himself forcefully. Just a dream.
But he knew the truth of what Moridin had said. Rand's enemy still lived. Light! How many of the others
had returned as well? Anger made him grip the armrest of the chair. Perhaps he should have been
terrified, but he had stopped running from this creature and his master long ago. Rand had no room left
for fear. In fact, it should be Moridin who feared, for the last time they had met, Rand had killed him.
"How?" Rand demanded.
"Long ago, I promised you that the Great Lord could restore your lost love. Do you not think that he can
easily recover one who serves him?"
Another name for the Dark One was Lord of the Grave. Yes, it was true, even if Rand wished he could
deny it. Why should he be surprised to see his enemies return, when the Dark One could restore the dead
to life?
"We are all reborn," Moridin continued, "spun back into the Pattern time and time again. Death is no
barrier to my master save for those who have known balefire. They are beyond his grasp. It is a wonder
we can remember them."
So some of the others really were dead. Balefire was the key. But how had Moridin gotten into Rand's
dreams? Rand set wards each night. He glanced at Moridin, noticing something odd about the man's eyes.
Small black specks floated about in the whites, crossing back and forth like bits of ash blown on a
leisurely wind.
"The Great Lord can grant you sanity, you know," Moridin said.
"Your last gift of sanity brought me no comfort," Rand said, surprising himself with the words. That had
been Lews Therin's memory, not his own. Yet Lews Therin was gone from his mind. Oddly, Rand felt
more stable—somehow—here in this place where all else appeared fluid. The pieces of himself fit
together better. Not perfectly, of course, but better than they had in recent memory.
Moridin snorted softly, but said nothing. Rand turned back to the flames, watching them twist and flicker.
They formed shapes, like the clouds, but these were headless bodies, skeletal, backs arching in pain,
writhing for a moment in fire, spasming, before flashing into nothing.
Rand watched that fire for a time, thinking. One might have thought
238
THE GATHERING STORM
that they were two old friends, enjoying the warmth of a winter hearth. Except that the flames gave no
heat, and Rand would someday kill this man again. Or die at his hands.
Moridin tapped his fingers on the chair. "Why have you come here?"
Come here? Rand thought, with shock. Hadn't Moridin brought him?
"I feel so tired," Moridin continued, closing his eyes. "Is that you, or is it me? I could throttle Semirhage
for what she did."
Rand frowned. Was Moridin mad? Ishamael had certainly seemed crazy, at the end.
"It is not time for us to fight," Moridin said, waving a hand at Rand. "Go. Leave me in peace. I do not
know what would happen to us if we killed one another. The Great Lord will have you soon enough. His
victory is assured."
"He has failed before and will fail again," Rand said. "I will defeat him."
Moridin laughed again, the same heartless laugh as before. "Perhaps you will," he said. "But do you think
that matters? Consider it. The Wheel turns, time and time again. Over and over the Ages turn, and men
fight the Great Lord. But someday, he will win, and when he does, the Wheel will stop.
"That is why his victory is assured. I think it will be this Age, but if not, then in another. When you are
victorious, it only leads to another battle. When he is victorious, all things will end. Can you not see that
there is no hope for you?"
"Is that what made you turn to his side?" Rand asked. "You were always so full of thoughts, Elan. Your
logic destroyed you, didn't it?"
"There is no path to victory," Moridin said. "The only path is to follow the Great Lord and rule for a time
before all things end. The others are fools. They look for grand rewards in the eternities, but there will be
no eternities. Only the now, the last days."
He laughed again, and this time there was joy in it. True pleasure.
Rand stood. Moridin eyed him warily, but did not get up.
"There is a way to win, Moridin," Rand said. "I mean to kill him. Slay the Dark One. Let the Wheel turn
without his constant taint."
Moridin gave no reaction. He was still staring at the flames. "We are connected," Moridin finally said.
"That is how you came here, I suspect, though I do not understand our bond myself. I doubt you can
understand the magnitude of the stupidity in your statement."
A PLACE TO BEGIN
239
Rand felt a flash of anger, but fought it down. He would not be goaded. "We shall see."
He reached for the One Power. It was distant, far away. Rand seized it, and felt himself yanked away, as
if on a line of saidin. The room vanished, and so did the One Power, as Rand entered a deep blackness.
Rand finally stopped thrashing in his sleep, and Min held her breath, hoping that he wouldn't start again.
She sat, legs tucked underneath her, wrapped in a blanket as she read in her chair at the corner of the
room. A small lamp flickered and danced on the short table beside her, illuminating her stack of musty
books. Falling Shale, Marks and Remarks, Monuments Past. Histories, most of them.
Rand sighed softly, but did not move. Min released her breath and settled back into her chair, finger
marking her place in a copy of Pelateos's Ponderings, With the shutters closed for the night, she could
still hear the wind sough in the pines. The room smelled faintly of smoke from the strange fire.
Aviendha's quick thinking had made a potential disaster into a mere inconvenience. Not that she was
being rewarded for it. The Wise Ones continued to work her as hard as a merchant's last mule.
Min hadn't been able to get close enough to her to have a conversation, despite the fact that they'd been in
the camp together for some time now. She didn't know how to think of the other woman. They had
become a little more comfortable with one another that evening, sharing oosquai. But one day did not
friends make, and she was definitely uncomfortable about sharing.
Min glanced again at Rand, lying on his back, eyes closed, breath coming evenly now. His left arm lay
across his blankets, the stump exposed. She didn't know how he managed to sleep, with those wounds in
his side. As soon as she thought of them, she could feel the pain—it was all part of the rolled-up ball of
Rand's emotions in the back of her mind. She had learned to ignore the pain. She'd had to. For him, it
would be much, much stronger. How he could stand it, she didn't know.
She wasn't Aes Sedai—thank the Light—but somehow she had bonded him. It was amazing; she could
tell where he was, tell if he was distraught. She could mostly keep his emotions from overwhelming her
except when they were passionate. But what woman didn't want to be overwhelmed during those
moments? It was a particularly . . . exhilarating
240
THE GATHERING STORM
experience with the bond, which let her feel both her own desire and the raging tempest of fire that was
Rand's desire for her.
The thought made her blush, and she pulled open Ponderings to distract herself. Rand needed his sleep,
and she was going to let him have it. Besides, she needed to study, although she was confronted by
conclusions that she didn't like.
These books had belonged to Herid Fel, the kindly old scholar who had joined Rand's school in Cairhien.
Min smiled, remembering Fel's distracted way of talking and his confused—yet somehow brilliant—
discoveries.
Herid Fel was dead now, murdered, torn apart by Shadowspawn. He'd discovered something in these
books, something he'd intended to tell Rand. Something about the Last Battle and the seals on the Dark
One's prison. Fel had been killed just before he could pass on the information. Perhaps it was coincidence;
perhaps the books had nothing to do with his death. But perhaps they did. Min was determined to find the
answers. For Rand, and for Herid himself.
She put down Ponderings and picked up Thoughts Among the Ruins, a work from over a thousand years
ago. She'd marked a place with a small slip of paper, the very same now-worn note that Herid had sent to
Rand shortly before the murder. Min turned it over in her fingers, reading it again.
Belief and order give strength. Have to clear rubble before you can build. Will explain when see you next. Do not
bring girl. Too pretty.
She figured—from reading among his books—that she could trace his thoughts. Rand had wanted
information on how to seal the Dark One's prison. Could Fel have discovered what she thought she had?
She shook her head. What was she doing trying to solve a scholarly mystery? But who else was there?
One of the Brown Ajah might be better suited, but could they be trusted? Even those who had made their
oaths to him might decide that it was in Rand's best interests to keep secrets from him. Rand himself was
far too busy, and he was too impatient for books lately anyway. That left Min. She was beginning to piece
together some of what he would have to do, but there was more—so much more—that was still unknown.
She felt she was getting close, but it worried her to reveal what she'd discovered to Rand. How would he
respond?
She sighed, scanning the book. She'd never thought that she, of all peoA PLACE TO BEGIN
241
pie, would become a fool for some man. Yet here she was, following him wherever he went, putting his
needs before her own. That didn't mean she was his pet, regardless what some of the people in camp said.
She followed Rand because she loved him, and she could feel—literally—that he returned her love.
Despite the harshness that was invading him bit by bit, despite the anger and the bleakness of his life, he
loved her. And so she did what she could to help him.
If she could help solve this one puzzle, the puzzle of sealing the Dark One's prison, she could achieve
something not just for Rand, but for the world itself. What did it matter if soldiers in the camp didn't
know what her value was? It was probably better if everyone assumed her to be dis-missible. Any
assassin who came to kill Rand should think that he could ignore Min. The would-be killer would soon
discover the knives hidden in Min's sleeves. She wasn't as good with them as Thorn Merrilin was, but she
knew more than enough to kill.
Rand turned in his sleep, but settled down again. She loved him. She hadn't chosen to do so, but her
heart—or the Pattern, or the Creator, or whatever was in charge of these things—had made the decision
for her. And now she wouldn't change her feelings if she could. If it meant danger, if it meant suffering
the looks of men in the camp, if it meant . . . sharing him with others.
Rand stirred again. This time, he groaned and opened his eyes, sitting up. He raised his hand to his head,
somehow managing to look more weary now than he had when he'd gone to sleep. He wore only his
smallclothes, and his chest was bare. He sat like that for a long moment, then stood up, walking to the
shuttered window.
Min pushed her book closed. "And what do you think you're doing, sheepherder? You barely slept for a
couple of hours!"
He opened the shutters and the window, exposing the dark night beyond. A stray curl of wind made her
lamp flame shiver.
"Rand?" Min asked.
She could barely hear his voice when he replied. "He's inside my head. He was gone during the dream.
But he's back now."
She resisted sinking down in her chair. Light, but she hated hearing about Rand's madness. She'd hoped
that when he healed saidin, he would be free of the taint's insanities. "He?" she asked, forcing her voice to
be steady. "The voice of... Lews Therin?"
He turned, clouded night sky outside the window framing his face, the lamp's uneven illumination leaving
his features mostly in shadows.
242
THE GATHERING STORM
"Rand," she said, setting her book aside and joining him beside the window. "You have to talk to
someone. You can't keep it all inside."
"I have to be strong."
She tugged on his arm, turning him toward her. "Keeping me away means you're strong?"
"I'm not—"
"Yes you are. There are things going on in there, behind those Aiel eyes of yours. Rand, do you think I
will stop loving you because of what you hear?"
"You'll be frightened."
"Oh," she said, folding her arms. "So I'm a fragile flower, am I?"
He opened his mouth, struggling for words, in the way he once had. Back when he'd been nothing more
than a sheepherder on an adventure. "Min, I know you're strong. You know I do."
"Then trust me to be strong enough to bear what is inside you," she said. "We can't just pretend nothing
has happened." She forced herself onward. "The taint left marks on you. I know it did. But if you can't
share it with me, who can you share it with?"
He ran his hand through his hair, then turned away, beginning to pace. "Burn it all, Min! If my enemies
discover my weaknesses, they will exploit them. I feel blind. I'm running in the dark on an unfamiliar
path. I don't know if there are breaks in the road, or if the whole cursed thing ends in a cliff!"
She laid a hand on his arm as he passed, stopping him. "Tell me."
"You'll think I'm mad."
She snorted. "I already think you're a wool-headed fool. Can it be much worse than that?"
He regarded her, and some of the tension left his face. He sat down on the edge of the bed, sighing softly.
But it was progress.
"Semirhage was right," Rand said. "I hear . . . things. A voice. The voice of Lews Therin, the Dragon. He
speaks to me and responds to the world around me. Sometimes, he tries to seize saidin from me. And . . .
and sometimes he succeeds. He's wild, Min. Insane. But the things he can do with the One Power are
amazing."
He stared off into the distance. Min shivered. Light! He let the voice in his head wield the One Power?
What did that mean? That he let the mad part of his brain take control?
He shook his head. "Semirhage claims that this is just insanity, tricks of my mind, but Lews Therin knows
things—things that I don't. Things
A PLACE TO BEGIN
243
about history, about the One Power. You had a viewing of me that showed two people merging into one.
That means that Lews Therin and I are distinct! Two people, Min. He's real."
She walked over and sat next to him. "Rand, he's you. Or you're him. Spun out into the Pattern again.
Those memories and things you can do, they're remnants from who you were before."
"No," Rand said. "Min, he's insane and I'm not. Besides, he failed. I won't. I won't do it, Min. I won't hurt
those I love, as he did. And when I defeat the Dark One, I won't leave him able to return a short time later
and terrorize us again."
Three thousand years a "short time later"? She put her arms around him. "Does it matter?" she asked. "If
there is another person, or if those are just memories from before, the information is useful."
"Yes," Rand said, seeming distant again. "But I'm afraid to use the One Power. When I do, I risk letting
him take control. He can't be trusted. He didn't mean to kill her, but that doesn't change the fact that he
did. Light . . . Hyena. ..."
Was this how it happened to all of them? Each one assuming that they were really sane, and that it was
the other person inside of them who did horrible things?
"It's done now, Rand," she said, holding him close. "Whatever this voice is, it won't grow any worse.
Saidin is cleansed."
Rand didn't respond, but he did relax. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his warmth beside her,
particularly since he'd left the window open.
"Ishamael lives," Rand said.
She snapped her eyes open. "What?" Just when she was beginning to feel comfortable!
"I visited him in the World of Dreams," Rand said. "And before you ask, no. It wasn't just a nightmare
and it wasn't madness. It was real, and I can't explain how I know. You will just have to trust me."
"Ishamael," she whispered. "You killed him!"
"Yes," Rand said. "In the Stone of Tear. He has returned, bearing a new face and a new name, but it is
him. We should have realized it would happen; the Dark One won't abandon such useful tools without a
fight. He can reach beyond the grave."
"Then how can we win? If everyone we kill just comes back again. . . ."
"Balefire," Rand said. "It will kill them for good."
"Cadsuane said—"
244
THE GATHERING STORM
"I don't care what Cadsuane said," he snarled. "She is my advisor, and she gives advice. Only advice. /
am the Dragon Reborn, and / will decide how we fight." He stopped, taking a deep breath. "Anyway, it
doesn't matter if the Forsaken return, it doesn't matter who or what the Dark One sends at us. In the end, I
will destroy him, if possible. If not, then I will at least seal him away so tightly that the world can forget
him."
He glanced down at her. "For that ... I need the voice, Min. Lews Therin knows things. Or ... or / know
things. Whichever it is, the knowledge is there. In a way, the Dark One's own taint will destroy him, for it
is what gave me access to Lews Therin."
Min glanced at her books. Herid's little slip of paper still peeked from the depths of Thoughts Among the
Ruins. "Rand," she said. "You have to destroy the seals to the Dark One's prison."
He looked at her, frowning.
"I'm sure of it," she said. "I've been reading Herid's books all this time, and I believe that's what he meant
by 'clearing away the rubble.' In order to rebuild the Dark One's prison, you will first need to open it.
Clear away the patch made on the Bore."
She had expected him to be incredulous. Shockingly, he just nodded. "Yes," he said. "Yes, that sounds
right. I doubt that many will wish to hear it. If those seals are broken, there is no way to tell what will
happen. If I fail to contain him ..."
The prophecies didn't say Rand would win. Only that he would fight. Min shivered again—blasted
window!—but met Rand's gaze. "You'll win. You'll defeat him."
He sighed. "Faith in a madman, Min?"
"Faith in you, sheepherder." Suddenly viewings spun around his head. She ignored them most of the time,
unless they were new, but now she picked them out. Fireflies consumed in darkness. Three women before
a pyre. Flashes of light, darkness, shadow, signs of death, crowns, injuries, pain and hope. A tempest
around Rand al'Thor, stronger than any physical storm.
"We still don't know what to do," he said. "The seals are brittle enough that I could break them in my
hands, but what then? Mow do I stop him? Does it say anything of that in your books?"
"It's hard to tell," she admitted. "The clues—if that's what they are—are vague. I will keep looking. I
promise. I'll find answers for you.'
He nodded, and she was surprised to feel his trust through the bond. That was a frighteningly rare emotion
from him recently, but he did
A PLACE TO BEGIN
245
seem softer than he had during previous days. Still stone, but perhaps with some few cracks, willing to let
her inside. It was a beginning.
She tightened her arms around him and closed her eyes again. A place to begin, but with so little time left.
It would have to do.
Carefully shielding her burning candle, Aviendha lit the pole-mounted lantern. It flickered alight,
illuminating the green around her. Slumbering soldiers snored in rows of tents. The evening was cold, the
air crisp, and branches rattled in the distance. A lonely owl hooted. And Aviendha was exhausted.
She'd crossed the grounds fifty times, lighting the lantern, blowing it out, then jogging back across the
green and lighting her candle at the manor before walking carefully—shielding the flame—to light the
lantern again.
Another month of these punishments and she'd probably go as mad as a wetlander. The Wise Ones would
wake one morning and find her going for a swim, or carrying a half-full waterskin, or—even—riding a
horse for pleasure! She sighed, too exhausted to think any further, and turned toward the Aiel section of
camp to finally sleep.
Someone was standing behind her.
She started, hand going to her dagger, but relaxed as she recognized Amys. Of all the Wise Ones, only
she—a former Maiden—could have sneaked up on Aviendha.
The Wise One stood with hands clasped before her, brown shawl and skirt flapping slightly in the wind.
Aviendha's skin prickled at the particularly chilly gust. Amys' silver hair seemed almost ghostly in the
evening light; a pine needle passing on the breeze had gotten lodged in it. "You approach your
punishments with such . . . dedication, child," Amys said.
Aviendha looked down. Pointing out her activities was to shame her. Was she running out of time? Had
the Wise Ones finally decided to give up on her? "Please, Wise One. I only do as duty demands."
"Yes, you do," Amys said. She reached up, running her hand through her hair, and found the pine needle,
then let it drop to the dead grass. "And, also, you do not. Sometimes, Aviendha, we are so concerned with
the things we have done that we do not stop to consider the things we have not."
Aviendha was glad for the darkness, which hid her shameful blush. In the distance, a soldier rang the
evening bell to chime the hour, the soft
246
THE GATHERING STORM
metal ringing with eleven melancholy peals. How did she respond to Amys' comments? There didn't seem
to be any proper response.
Aviendha was saved by a flash of light just beyond the camp. It was faint, but in the darkness, the flicker
was easy to notice.
"What?" the Wise One asked, noticing Aviendha's gaze and turning to follow it.
"Light," Aviendha said. "From the Traveling grounds."
Amys frowned, then the two of them moved toward the grounds. Soon they encountered Damer Flinn,
Davram Bashere, a small guard of Saldaeans and Aiel walking into the camp. What did one think of a
creature such as Flinn? The taint had been cleansed, but this man—and many of the others—had come,
asking to learn, before that had happened. Aviendha herself would have sooner embraced Sightblinder
himself as done that, but they bad proven to be powerful weapons.
Amys and Aviendha moved to the side as the small party hurried toward the manor house, lit only by the
distant flickering torches and the cloud-covered sky above. Though most of the force sent to meet the
Sean-chan had been made up of Bashere's soldiers, there were several Maidens in the group. Amys locked
eyes with one of them, an older woman named Corana. She hung back, and though it was difficult to tell
in the darkness, she looked concerned. Perhaps angry.
"What news?" Amys asked.
"The invaders, these Seanchan," Corana nearly spat the word, "they have agreed to another meeting with
the Car'a'cam."
Amys nodded. Corana, however, sniffed audibly, short hair ruffling in the chill breeze.
"Speak," Amys said.
"The Car'a'carn sues too hard for peace," Corana replied. "These Seanchan have given him reason to
declare a blood feud, but he simpers and panders to them. I feel like a trained dog, sent to lick the feet of a
stranger."
Amys glanced at Aviendha. "What do you say to this, Aviendha?"
"My heart agrees with her words, Wise One. But, while the Car'a'carn is a fool in some things, he is not
being one now. My mind agrees with him, and in this case, it is the mind I would follow."
"How can you say that?" Corana snapped. She emphasized the you, as if to imply that
Aviendha—recently a Maiden—should understand.
"Which is more important, Corana?" Aviendha replied raising her
A PLACE TO BEGIN
247
chin. "The argument you have with another Maiden, or the feud your clan has with its enemy?"
"The clan comes first, of course. But what does that matter?"
"The Seanchan deserve to be fought," Aviendha said, "and you are right that it pains to ask them for
peace. But you forget that we have a greater enemy. Sightblinder himself has a feud with all men, and our
duty is larger than feuds between nations."
Amys nodded. "There will be time enough to show the Seanchan the weight of our spears at another
date."
Corana shook her head. "Wise One, you sound like a wetlander. What care have we for their prophecies
and stories? Rand al'Thor's duty as Car'a'carn is much greater than his duty to the wetlanders. He must
lead us to glory."
Amys stared harshly at the blond Maiden. "You speak like a Shaido."
Corana locked her stare for a moment, then wilted, turning away. "Pardon, Wise One," she finally said. "I
have toh. But you should know that the Seanchan had Aiel in their camp."
"What?" Aviendha asked.
"They were leashed," Corana said, "like their tame Aes Sedai. They were being shown off like prizes for
our arrival, I suspect. I recognized many Shaido among them."
Amys hissed softly. Shaido or not, Aiel being held as damane was a grave insult. And the Seanchan were
flaunting their captives. She gripped her dagger.
"What do you say now?" Amys glanced at Aviendha.
Aviendha gritted her teeth. "The same, Wise One, though I'd almost rather cut out my tongue than admit
it."
Amys nodded, looking back at Corana. "Do not think that we will ignore this insult, Corana. Vengeance
will come. Once this war is done, the Seanchan will feel the storm of our arrows and the tips of our
spears. But not until after. Go tell the two clan chiefs what you have told me."
Corana nodded—she would meet her toh later, in private, with Amys—and left. Darner Flinn and the
others had already reached the manor house; would they wake Rand? He was sleeping now, though
Aviendha had been forced to mute her bond in the middle of her night's punishment, lest she endure
sensations that she'd rather have avoided. At least, she'd rather have avoided them secondhand.
"There will be dangerous words of this among the spears," Amys said
248
THE GATHERING STORM
thoughtfully. "There will be calls to attack, demands that the Car'a'carn give up his attempts to make
peace."
"Will they stay with him when he refuses?" Aviendha asked.
"Of course they will," Amys said. "They're Aiel." She glanced at Aviendha. "We haven't much time,
child. Perhaps it is time to stop coddling you. I will think up better punishments for you starting
tomorrow."
Coddling me? Aviendha watched Amys stalk away. They couldn't possibly come up with anything more useless or
demeaning!
But she'd learned long ago not to underestimate Amys. With a sigh, Aviendha broke into a trot, heading
back toward her tent.
CHAPTER 16
In the White Tower
" TT 'm curious to hear the novice speak. Tell me, Egwene al'Vere, how
I would you have handled the situation?"
_JL Egwene looked up from the bowl of shells, two-legged steel nutcracker in one hand, a bulbous walnut
in the other. It was the first time any of the Aes Sedai present had addressed her. She had begun to think
that attending the three Whites would turn out to be another waste of time.
The afternoon's location was a small inset balcony on the third level of the White Tower. Sitters could
demand rooms with not only full windows, but balconies as well, something that was
uncommon—though not unheard-of—for regular sisters. This one was shaped like a small turret, with a
sturdy stone wall running around the rim in a curve, a similar stone hanging from the outcropping above.
There was generous space between the two and the view was quite beautiful, eastward across the rising
hills that eventually climbed to Kinslayer's Dagger. The Dagger itself might have been distantly visible on
a clear day.
A cool breeze blew across the balcony, and this high up it was fresh and unsullied by the stink of the city
below. A sinuous pair of sticklesharps— with their three-pronged leaves and clinging vines—grew on
each side of the balcony, their creeping tendrils covering the inside of the stonework and making it look
almost like a deep forest ruin. The plants were more
249
250
THE GATHERING STORM
ornamentation than Egwene would have expected in the quarters of a White, but Ferane was reported to
be a shade on the vain side. She probably liked it that her balcony was so distinctive, even if protocol
required her to keep the vines pruned as to not mar the gleaming profile of the Tower itself.
The three Whites sat in wicker chairs at a low table. Egwene sat before them on a wicker stool, back to
the open air, denied the view as she cracked nuts for the others. Any number of servants or kitchen
workers could have done the work. But this was the sort of thing that sisters found to fill the time of
novices whom they thought might be lounging about too much.
Egwene had thought that cracking the walnuts was just a pretense. After being ignored for the better part
of an hour, she had begun to wonder, but all three were looking at her now. She shouldn't have doubted
her instincts.
Ferane had the coppery skin of a Domani, and a temperament to match, odd for a White. She was short,
with an apple-shaped face and dark, lustrous hair. Her auburn dress was filmy but decent with a wide
white sash at the waist to match her shawl, which she was currently wearing. The dress didn't lack for
embroidery, and the fabric did seem an indication, perhaps intentional, of her Domani heritage.
The other two, Miyasi and Tesan, both wore white, as if they feared that dresses of any other colors were
a betrayal of their Ajah. That notion was becoming more and more common among all of the Aes Sedai.
Tesan was a Taraboner, with her dark hair in beaded braids. The beads were white and gold, and they
framed a narrow face that looked as if it had been pinched at top and bottom and pulled. She always
looked worried about something. Though perhaps that was just the times. Light knew they all had a great
deal to worry over.
Miyasi was more calm, her head topped by iron-gray hair in a bun. Her Aes Sedai face betrayed none of
the many years that she must have seen for her hair to silver so fully. She was tall and plump, and she
preferred her walnuts shelled very particularly. No fragments or broken pieces of nut for her, only full
halves. Egwene carefully pried one from the shell she had cracked, then handed it over; the small brown
lump was wrinkled and ridged, like the brain of a tiny animal.
"What was it you asked, Ferane?" Egwene asked, cracking another walnut and discarding the shell in a
pail at her feet.
The White barely frowned at Egwene's improper response. They
IN THE WHITE TOWER
251
were all growing accustomed to the fact that this "novice" seldom acted her presumed station. "I asked,"
Ferane said coolly, "what you would have done in the Amyrlin's place. Consider this part of your
instruction. You know that the Dragon has been reborn and you know that the Tower must control him in
order for the Last Battle to proceed. How would you handle him?"
A curious question. It didn't sound much like "instruction." But Ferane's tone didn't make it sound like an
offer to complain about Elaida either. There was too much contempt for Egwene in that voice.
The other two Whites remained quiet. Ferane was a Sitter, and they deferred to her.
She's heard how often I mention Elaida's failure with Rand, Egwene thought, looking into Ferane's steely black
eyes. So. A test, is it? This would have to be handled very carefully.
Egwene reached for another walnut. "First, I would send a group of sisters to his home village."
Ferane raised an eyebrow. "To intimidate his family?"
"Of course not," Egwene said. "To interrogate them. Who is this Dragon Reborn? Is he a man of temper, a
man of passions? Or is he a calm man, careful and cautious? Was he the type to spend time alone in the
fields, or did he make quick friends of the other youths? Would you be more likely to find him in a tavern
or a workshop?"
"But you already know him," Tesan piped in.
"I do," Egwene said, cracking the walnut. "But we were speaking of a hypothetical situation." Best you
remember that in the real world, I know the Dragon Reborn personally. As nobody else in this Tower does.
"Let us assume that you are you," Ferane said. "And that he is Rand al'Thor, your childhood friend."
"Very well."
"Tell me," Ferane said, leaning forward. "Of the types of men you listed just before, which best fits this
Rand al'Thor?"
Egwene hesitated. "All of them," she said, dropping a fragmented walnut into a small bowl with others.
Miyasi wouldn't touch it, but the other two weren't so picky. "If I were me and the Dragon were Rand, I'd
know him to be a rational person, for a man—if somewhat bullheaded at times. Well, most of the time.
More importantly, I'd know him to be a good man at heart. And so, my next step would be to send sisters
to him to offer guidance."
"And if he rejected them?" Ferane asked.
252
THE GATHERING STORM
"Then I'd send spies," Egwene said, "and watch to see if he has changed from the man I once knew."
"And while you waited and spied, he would terrorize the countryside, wreaking havoc and bringing
armies to his banner."
"And is that not what we want him to do?" Egwene asked. "I don't believe he could have been prevented
from taking Callandor, should we have wanted him to be. He has managed to restore order to Cairhien,
unite Tear and Illian beneath one ruler, and presumably has gained the favor of Andor as well."
"Not to mention subjugating those Aiel," Miyasi said, reaching for a handful of nuts.
Egwene caught her with a sharp gaze. "Nobody subjugates the Aiel. Rand gained their respect. I was with
him at the time."
Miyasi froze, hand partway to the bowl of nutmeats. She shook herself, breaking Egwene's gaze, grabbing
the bowl and retreating back to her chair. A cool breeze blew across the balcony, rustling the vines, which
Ferane had complained were not greening this spring like they should. Egwene returned to shelling
walnuts.
"It seems," Ferane said, "that you would simply let him sow chaos as he saw fit."
"Rand al'Thor is like a river," Egwene said. "Calm and placid when not agitated, but a furious and deadly
current when squeezed too tightly. What Elaida did to him was the equivalent of trying to force the
Manetherendrelle through a canyon only two feet wide. Waiting to discover a man's temperament is not
foolish, nor is it a sign of weakness. Acting without information is lunacy, and the White Tower deserved
the tempest it riled up."
"Perhaps," Ferane said. "But you have still not told me how you would deal with the situation, once your
information was collected and the time for waiting had passed." Ferane was known for her temper, but at
the moment her voice held the coldness common among Whites. It was the coldness of one who spoke
without emotion, thinking about logic without tolerating outside influences.
It was not the best way to approach problems. People were much more complex than a set of rules or
numbers. There was a time for logic, true, but there was also a time for emotion.
Rand was a problem she hadn't allowed herself to dwell on—she needed to deal with one problem at a
time. But there was also much to be
IN THE WHITE TOWER
253
said for planning ahead. If she didn't consider how to deal with the Dragon Reborn, she'd eventually find
herself in as bad a situation as Elaida.
He had changed from the man she had known. And yet the seeds of personality within him must be the
same. She'd seen his rage during their months traveling together into the Aiel Waste. That hadn't often
come out during his childhood, but she could see now that it must have been lurking. It wasn't that he had
suddenly developed a temper; it was simply that nothing in the Two Rivers had upset him.
During the months she'd traveled with him, he'd seemed to harden with each step. He was under
extraordinary pressures. How did one deal with such a man? She frankly had no idea.
But this conversation wasn't about what to do with Rand, not really. It was about Ferane trying to
determine what kind of woman Egwene was.
"Rand al'Thor sees himself as an emperor," Egwene said. "And I suppose he is one, now. He will react
poorly if he thinks he is being pushed or shoved in any particular direction. If I were to deal with him, I
would send a delegation to honor him."
"A lavish procession?" Ferane asked.
"No," Egwene said. "But not a threadbare one either. A group of three Aes Sedai, led by a Gray,
accompanied by a Green and a Blue. He views the Blue favorably because of past associations, and
Greens are often perceived as the opposites to Reds, a subtle indication that we are willing to work with
him rather than gentle him. A Gray because it would be expected, but also because if a Gray is sent, then
it means negotiations, not armies, will follow."
"Good logic," Tesan said, nodding.
Ferane was not so easily convinced. "Delegations like this one have failed in the past. I believe that
Elaida's own delegation was led by a Gray."
"Yes, but Elaida's delegation was fundamentally flawed," Egwene said.
"And why is that?"
"Why, because it was sent by a Red, of course," Egwene said, cracking a nut. "I have trouble seeing the
logic in raising a member of the Red Ajah to Amyrlin during the days of the Dragon Reborn. Doesn't that
seem destined to create animosity between him and the Tower?"
"One might say," Ferane countered, "that a Red is needed during these troubled times, for the Red are the
most experienced at dealing with men who can channel."
" 'Dealing' with is different from 'working' with," Egwene said. "The
254
THE GATHERING STORM
Dragon Reborn should not have been left to run free, but since when has the White Tower been in the
business of kidnapping and forcing people to our will? Are we not known as the most subtle and careful
of all people? Do we not pride ourselves on being able to make others do as they should, all the while
letting them think it was their idea? When in the past have we locked kings in boxes and beaten them for
disobedience? Why now— of all the times under the Light—have we forsaken our fine practice and
become simple footpads instead?"
Ferane selected a walnut. The other two Whites were sharing an unsettled look. "There is sense in what
you say," the Sitter finally admitted.
Egwene set aside the nutcracker. "Rand al'Thor is a good man, in his heart, but he needs guidance. These
days are when we should have been at our most subtle. He should have been led to trust Aes Sedai above
all others, to rely on our counsel. He should have been shown the wisdom in listening. Instead, he has
been shown that we will treat him like an unruly child. If he is one, he cannot be allowed to think we
regard him in such a way. Because of our bungling, he has taken some Aes Sedai captive, and has allowed
still others to be bonded to those Asha'man of his."
Ferane sat up stiffly. "Best not to mention that atrocity."
"What is this?" Tesan said, shocked, hand raised to her breast. Some Whites never seemed to pay
attention to the world around them. "Ferane? Did you know of this?"
Ferane didn't respond.
"I've . . . heard this rumor," said stout Miyasi. "If it is true, then something must be done."
"Yes," Egwene said. "Unfortunately, we cannot focus on al'Thor right now."
"He is the greatest problem facing the world," pinch-faced Tesan said, leaning forward. "We must deal
with him first."
"No," Egwene said. "There are other issues."
Miyasi frowned. "With the Last Battle impending, I can't see any other issues of importance."
Egwene shook her head. "In dealing with Rand now, we'd be like a farmer, looking at his wagon and
worrying that there aren't any goods in the bed for him to sell—but ignoring the fact that his axle is
cracked. Fill the bed before it is time, and you'll just break the wagon and be worse off than when you
started."
"And what, exactly, are you implying?" Tesan demanded.
Egwene looked back at Ferane.
IN THE WHITE TOWER
255
"I see," Ferane said. "You are referring to the division in the White Tower."
"Can a cracked stone be a good foundation for a building?" Egwene asked. "Can a frayed rope hold a
panicky horse? How can we, in our current state, hope to manage the Dragon Reborn himself?"
Ferane said, "Why, then, do you continue to enforce the division by insisting that you are the Amyrlin
Seat? You defy your own logic."
"And renouncing my claim on the Amyrlin Seat would mend the Tower?" Egwene asked.
"It would help."
Egwene raised an eyebrow. "Let us assume, for a moment, that by renouncing my claim, I could persuade
the rebel faction to rejoin the White Tower and accept Elaida's leadership." She raised the eyebrow
further, indicating how likely she thought that was. "Would the divisions be healed?"
"You just said they would be," Tesan said, frowning.
"Oh?" Egwene said. "Would sisters stop scurrying through the hallways, frightened to be alone? Would
groups of women from different Ajahs stop regarding each other with hostility when they pass in the
hallways? With all due respect, would we no longer feel the need to wear our shawls at all times to
reinforce who we are and where our allegiance is?"
Ferane glanced down, briefly, at her white-fringed shawl.
Egwene leaned forward, continuing. "Surely you, of all women in the White Tower, can see the
importance of the Ajahs working together. We need women with different skills and interests to gather
into Ajahs. But does it make sense for us to refuse to work together?"
"The White has not caused this . . . regrettable tension," Miyasi said with a little snort. "The others acting
with such abundance of emotion have created it."
"The present leadership has caused it," Egwene said, "a leadership which teaches that it's all right to still
fellow sisters in secret, to execute Warders before their Aes Sedai are even brought to trial. That there's
nothing wrong with removing a sister's shawl and reducing her to an Accepted, that there's nothing wrong
with disbanding an entire Ajah. And what of acting without the counsel of the Hall in something as
dangerous as kidnapping and imprisoning the Dragon Reborn? Is it unexpected that the sisters would be
so frightened and worried? Is it not all completely logical, what has happened to us?"
The three Whites were quiet.
256
THE GATHERING STORM
"I will not submit," Egwene said. "Not while doing so leaves us fractured. I will continue to assert that
Elaida is not the Amyrlin. Her actions have proven it. You want to help battle the Dark One? Well, your
first step is not to deal with the Dragon Reborn. Your first step should be to reach out to sisters of the
other Ajahs."
"Why us?" Tesan said. "The actions of others are not our responsibility."
"And you are not to blame at all?" Egwene asked, letting a little of her anger seep through. Would none of
her sisters accept a modicum of responsibility? "You, of the White, should have seen where this road
would lead. Yes, Siuan and the Blue were not without their flaws—but you should have seen the flaw in
pulling her down, then allowing Elaida to disband the Blue. Besides, I believe that several members of
your own Ajah were integral to the act of setting up Elaida as Amyrlin."
Miyasi recoiled slightly. The Whites did not like to be reminded of Alviarin and her failure as Elaida's
Keeper. Instead of turning against Elaida for ousting the White, they seemed to have turned against their
own member for the shame she had caused them.
"I still think that this is work for the Grays," Tesan said, but she sounded less convinced than she had just
moments before. "You should speak with them."
"I have," Egwene said. Her patience was beginning to fray. "Some will not speak with me and continue to
send me to penance. Others say these rifts are not their fault, but with some coaxing have agreed to do
what they can. The Yellows have been very reasonable, and I think they're beginning to see the problems
in the Tower as a wound to be healed. I'm still working with several Brown sisters—they seem more
fascinated by the problems than worried about them. I've sent several of them looking through the
histories for examples of division, hoping they'll run across the story of Renala Merlon. The connection
should be easy to make, and perhaps they will begin to see that our problems here can be solved.
"The Greens have, ironically, been the most stubborn. They can be very like Reds in many ways, which is
infuriating as they really should be willing to accept me as one who would have been among them. That
only leaves the Blue, who have been banished, and the Red. I doubt that sisters of that last Ajah are going
to be very receptive to my suggestions."
Ferane sat back, thoughtful, and Tesan sat with three forgotten walnuts in her hand, staring at Egwene.
Miyasi scratched at her iron-gray hair, eyes wide with surprise.
Had Egwene given away too much? Aes Sedai were remarkably like
IN THE WHITE TOWER
257
Rand al'Thor; they did not like to know when they were being maneuvered.
"You are shocked," she said. "What, do you think I should simply sit—like most—and do nothing while
the Tower crumbles? This white dress has been forced upon me, and I do not accept what it represents,
but I will use it. A woman in novice white is one of the few who can pass from one Ajah quarter to
another these days. Someone has to work to mend the Tower, and I am the best choice. Besides, it is my
duty."
"How very . . . reasonable of you," Ferane said, her ageless brow furrowed.
"Thank you," Egwene said. Were they worried that she'd overstepped her bounds? Angered that she'd
been manipulating Aes Sedai? Coldly determined to see her punished yet again?
Ferane leaned forward. "Let us say that we wished to work toward mending the Tower. What path would
you recommend?"
Egwene felt a surge of excitement. She'd had nothing but setbacks during the last few days. Idiot Greens!
They would feel foolish indeed once she was accepted as Amyrlin.
"Suana, of the Yellow Ajah, will soon be inviting you three to share a meal with her," Egwene said. At
least, Suana would make the offer, once Egwene prodded her. "Accept and take your meal in a public
place, perhaps one of the Tower gardens. Be seen enjoying one another's company. I will try to get a
Brown sister to invite you next. Let yourself be seen by the other sisters mixing among the Ajahs."
"Simple enough," Miyasi said. "Very little effort required, but excellent potential for gain."
"We shall see," Ferane said. "You may withdraw, Egwene."
She didn't like being dismissed so, but there was no helping it. Still, the woman had shown Egwene
respect by using her name. Egwene stood up, and then—very carefully—nodded her head to Ferane.
Though Tesan and Miyasi gave no strong reactions, both pairs of eyes widened slightly. By now, it was
well known in the Tower that Egwene never curtsied. And, shockingly, Ferane bowed her head, just a
degree, returning the gesture.
"Should you decide to choose the White, Egwene al'Vere," the woman said, "know that you will find a
welcome here. Your logic this day was remarkable for one so young."
Egwene hid a smile. Just four days back, Bennae Nalsad had all but offered Egwene a place in the Brown,
and Egwene was still surprised at
258
THE GATHERING STORM
how vigilantly Suana recommended the Yellow to her. Almost they made her change her mind—but that
was mostly her frustration with the Green at the moment. "Thank you," she said. "But you must
remember that the Amyrlin must represent all Ajahs. Our discussion was enjoyable, however. I hope that
you will allow me to join you again in the future."
With that, Egwene withdrew, letting herself smile broadly as she nodded to Ferane's sturdy, bowlegged
Warder standing guard just inside the balcony. Her smile lasted right up until she left the White sector of
the Tower and found Katerine waiting in the hallway. The Red was not one of the two assigned to
Egwene earlier in the day, and talk about the Tower said that Elaida was relying on Katerine more and
more now that her Keeper had vanished on a mysterious mission.
Katerine's sharp face bore a smile of its own. That was not a good sign. "Here," the woman said, offering
a wooden cup holding a clear liquid. It was time for Egwene's afternoon dose of forkroot.
Egwene grimaced, but took the cup and drank the contents. She wiped her mouth with her handkerchief,
then began to walk down the hallway.
"And where are you going?" Katerine asked.
The smugness in her tone made Egwene hesitate. Egwene turned, frowning. "My next lesson—"
"You will have no further lessons," Katerine said. "At least, not of the kind you have been receiving. All
agree that your skill with weaves is impressive, for a novice."
Egwene frowned. Were they going to raise her to Accepted again? She doubted that Elaida would allow
her any more freedom, and she rarely spent any time in her quarters, so the extra space would be
unimportant.
"No," Katerine said, toying idly with the fringe on her shawl. "What you need to learn, it has been
decided, is humility. The Amyrlin has heard of your foolish refusal to curtsy to sisters. In her opinion, it's
the last symbol of your defiant nature, and so you are to receive a new form of instruction."
Egwene felt a moment of fear. "What kind of instruction?" she said, keeping her voice even.
"Chores and work," Katerine said.
"I already do chores, just like the novices."
"You mistake me," Katerine said. "From now on, all you will do is chores. You are to report to the
kitchens immediately—you will spend every afternoon working there. In the evenings, you will scrub
floors. In the mornings you will report to the groundsmaster and work the gardens.
IN THE WHITE TOWER
259
This will be your life, those same three activities every day—five hours at each one—until you give up
your foolish pride and learn to curtsy to your betters."
It was an end to Egwene's freedom, what little she had. There was glee in Katerine's eyes.
"Ah, so you understand," Katerine said. "No more visiting sisters in their quarters, wasting their time as
you practice weaves that you have already mastered. No more laziness; now you will work instead. What
think you of that?"
It wasn't the difficulty of the work that worried Egwene—she didn't mind the chores she did each day. It
was the lack of contact with other sisters that would ruin her. How would she mend the White Tower?
Light! It was a disaster.
She gritted her teeth and forced down her emotion. She met Katerine's eyes, saying, "Very well. Let us
go."
Katerine blinked. She'd obviously expected a tantrum, or at least a fight. But this was not the time.
Egwene turned her step toward the kitchens, leaving the quarters of the Whites behind. She couldn't let
them know how effective this punishment was.
She forced down her panic as she walked, the cavernous hallways of the inner Tower lined with bracketed
lamps, long and sinuous, like the heads of serpents spouting tiny flames up toward the stone ceiling. She
could deal with this. She would deal with this. They would not break her.
Perhaps she should work for a few days, then pretend that she had been humbled. Should she give the
curtsy Elaida demanded? It was a simple thing, really. One curtsy, and she could go back to her more
important duties.
No, she thought. No, that would not be the end of it. I'd lose the moment I gave that first curtsy. Giving in would
prove to Elaida that Egwene could be broken. Curtsying would begin a descent into destruction. Soon,
Elaida would decide that Egwene needed to start using honorifics for the Aes Sedai. The false Amyrlin
would send Egwene back to work detail, knowing it had been effective before. Would Egwene bend there
too? How long before any credibility she had ended up forgotten, trampled into the tiles of the Tower
hallways?
She could not bend. The beatings had not changed her behavior; work detail must not change her either.
Three hours of working the kitchens did little to improve her mood. Laras, the hefty Mistress of Kitchens,
had set Egwene at scrubbing out
260
THE GATHERING STORM
one of the ovenlike fireplaces. It was dirty, grimy work, not conducive to thinking. Not that there were
many ways out of her situation.
Egwene knelt back on her heels, raising an arm and wiping her brow. The arm came away smeared with
soot. Egwene sighed softly, her mouth and nose protected by a damp cloth to keep her from breathing too
much ash. Her breath was hot and stuffy against her face, and her skin was sticky with sweat. The drops
that fell from her face were stained with black soot; through the cloth she could smell the dull, crusty
scent of ash that had been burned over and over and over again.
The fireplace was a large square construction of burned red bricks. It was open on both sides and more
than large enough to crawl into— which was exactly what Egwene had to do. Dark crusts built up on the
inside of the flue and chimney, and they needed to be scrubbed free lest they clog the chimney or break
free and fall into the food. Outside in the dining room, Egwene could hear Katerine and Lirene chatting
and laughing with each other. The Reds periodically poked heads in to check on her, but her real
supervisor was Laras, who was scrubbing pots on the other side of the room.
Egwene had changed into a work dress for the duty. While it had once been white, it had been repeatedly
used by novices cleaning the fireplaces, and the soot had been ground into the fibers. Patches of gray
stained the cloth, like shadows.
She rubbed the small of her back, got back on her hands and knees, and crawled farther into the fireplace.
Using a small wooden scrape, she worked clumps of ash free from seams between the bricks, then
gathered it up and deposited it in brass buckets, the rims of which were powdered white and gray with
ash. Her first task had been to dig out all of the loose soot and pile it into the buckets. Her hands were so
blackened from the work she worried that the most furious scrubbing wouldn't get them clean. Her knees
ached, and they seemed a strange counterpart to her backside, which still stung from her regular morning
beating.
She continued, scratching with her scrape at a blackened section of brick, dimly lit by the lantern she'd
left burning in a corner inside the fireplace. She itched to use the One Power; but the Reds outside would
sense her channeling, and she'd discovered that her afternoon dose of forkroot had been
uncharacteristically strong, leaving her unable to channel as much as a trickle. In fact, it had been strong
enough to leave her drowsy, which made the work even harder.
Was this to be her life? Trapped inside a fireplace, scrubbing at bricks
IN THE WHITE TOWER
261
nobody saw, locked away from the world? She couldn't stand up to Elaida if everyone forgot about her.
She coughed quietly, the sound echoing against the inside of the fireplace.
She needed a plan. Her only recourse seemed to be to use the sisters who were trying to root out the Black
Ajah. But how to visit them? Without being trained by sisters, she had no way to escape her Red handlers
by entering the domains of other Ajahs. Could she sneak away somehow while doing labor? If her
absence were discovered, she'd probably end up in an even worse situation.
But she couldn't let her life be dominated by this menial labor! The Last Battle was approaching, the
Dragon Reborn ran free, and the Amyr-lin Seat was on her hands and knees cleaning fireplaces! She
gritted her teeth, scrubbing furiously. The soot had been baked on for so long that it formed a glossy black
patina on the stone. She'd never get it all off. She just needed to make sure it was clean enough that none
would break free.
Reflected in that glossy patina, she saw a shadow move across the opening of the far side of the fireplace.
Egwene immediately reached for the Source—but, of course, she found nothing. Not with forkroot
clouding her mind. But there was definitely someone outside the fireplace, crouching down, moving
quietly. . . .
Egwene gripped the scrape in one hand, slowly reaching down with the other to grab the brush she'd been
using to scoop up ash. Then she spun.
Laras froze, peeking into the fireplace. The Mistress of Kitchens wore a large white apron, stained with a
few soot marks itself. Her pudgy round face had seen its share of winters; her hair was starting to gray,
and lines creased the sides of her eyes. Leaning over as she was, her jowls formed a second, third and
fourth chin, and she gripped the side of the fireplace opening with a thick-fingered hand.
Egwene relaxed. Why had she been so certain that someone had been sneaking up on her? It was just
Laras coming to check on her.
Yet why had the woman moved so silently? Laras glanced to the side, eyes narrowing. Then she raised a
finger to her lips. Egwene felt herself tense again. What was going on?
Laras backed out of the fireplace, waving for Egwene to follow. The Mistress of Kitchens moved on light
feet, far quieter than Egwene would have thought possible. Assistant cooks and scullions clanged away in
other parts of the kitchen, but none were directly visible. Egwene crept free of the fireplace, tucking the
scrape into her belt and wiping her
262
THE GATHERING STORM
hands on her dress. She pulled the cloth free from her face, breathing sweet, soot-free air. She took a deep
breath, and received a harsh glare from Laras, followed by another finger to the lips.
Egwene nodded, following Laras through the kitchens. In a few moments she and Egwene stood in a
pantry, thick with the scent of dried grains and aging cheeses. The tiles gave way to more durable
brickwork here. Laras shoved aside a few sacks, then pulled open a piece of the floor. It was a wooden
trapdoor, capped with shaved brickwork on the top to make it seem part of the floor. It revealed a small,
rock-walled chamber underneath the pantry, large enough to hold a person, though a tall man would be
cramped.
"You wait here until night," Laras said in a low voice. "I can't get you out right now, not with the Tower
fluttery as a yard full of hens when the fox is about. But the garbage goes out late at night, and I'll hide
you among the girls who unload it. A dockworker will take you to a small boat and row you across the
river. I have some friends among the guard; they'll turn the other way. Once you reach the other side, it's
up to you what you do. I'd advise against going back to those fools who made you their puppet. Find
some place to lie low until this all blows over, then come back and see if whoever's in charge will take
you in. Isn't likely it will be Elaida, the way things are going. . . ."
Egwene blinked in surprise.
"Well," the heavyset woman said. "In you go."
"No time for jabbering!" Laras said, as if she weren't the one doing all of the talking. She was obviously
nervous, the way she kept glancing about and tapping her foot. But she'd obviously also done this sort of
thing before. Why was the simple cook in the White Tower so skilled at sneaking, so handy with a plan to
get Egwene out of the fortified and besieged city? And why did she have a bolt-hole in the kitchens in the
first place? Light! How had she created it?
"Don't worry about me," Laras said, eyeing Egwene. "I can handle myself. I'll keep all of the kitchen
servants away from where you were working. Those Aes Sedai only check on you every half-hour or
so—and since they just checked a minute ago, it will be a while before they look in again. When they do
check, I can plead ignorance and everyone will assume you slipped out of the kitchens. We'll soon have
you out of the city and nobody will be the wiser."
"Yes," Egwene said, finally finding her tongue, "but why?" She had
IN THE WHITE TOWER
263
assumed that, after helping Min and Siuan, Laras wouldn't be eager to help another fugitive.
Laras looked back at her, in the woman's eyes a determination as hard as any Aes Sedai's. Egwene
certainly had overlooked this woman! Who was she really?
"I won't be a party to the breaking of a girl's spirit," Laras said sternly. "Those beatings are shameful!
Fool Aes Sedai. I've served loyally these years, I have, but now they've told me that you're to be worked
as hard as I can push you, indefinitely. Well, I can see when a girl has moved away from being instructed
and into being beaten down. I won't have it, not in my kitchens. Light burn Elaida for thinking she could
do such a thing! Execute you or make you a novice, I don't care. But this breaking is unacceptable!"
The woman stood, setting hands on hips, a puff of flour rising from her apron. Oddly, Egwene found
herself considering the offer. She'd denied Siuan s offer to save her, but if she fled now, she would return
to the rebel camp having freed herself. That would be far superior to being rescued. She could get away
from all this, away from the beatings, away from the drudgery.
To do what? To sit on the outside and watch the Tower collapse?
"No," she said to Laras. "Your offer is very kind, but I can't take it. I'm sorry."
Laras frowned. "Now, you listen—"
"Laras," Egwene interrupted, "one does not take that tone with an Aes Sedai, no matter that one is the
Mistress of Kitchens."
Laras hesitated. "Fool girl. You ain't Aes Sedai."
"Accept it or not, I still can't go. Unless you intend to try stuffing me into that hole yourself—gagging and
tying me to keep me from crying out, followed by escorting me across the river in person—then I suggest
letting me return to my work."
"But why?"
"Because," Egwene said, glancing back at the fireplace. "Someone has to fight her."
"You can't fight like this," Laras said.
"Each day is a battle," Egwene said. "Each day I refuse to bend means something. Even if Elaida and her
Reds are the only ones who know it, that's something. A small something, but more than I could do from
the outside. Come. I've still got two hours of work left."
She turned and began to walk back toward the fireplace. A reluctant
264
THE GATHERING STORM
Laras closed the hatch on her hidden chamber, then joined her. The woman made much more noise now
as she walked, brushing against counters, her footfalls sounding on the bricks. Curious how she'd been
able to be so quiet when she wanted to.
A flash of red cloth, like the blood of a dead rabbit in the snow, moved through the kitchens. Egwene
froze as Katerine, wearing a dress with crimson skirts and yellow trim, spotted her. The Red's mouth was
thin-lipped, her eyes narrow. Had she seen Egwene and Laras walk off?
Laras froze.
"I see now what I was doing wrong," Egwene quickly said to the Mistress of Kitchens, eyeing a second
hearth, which lay near where they had been standing in the pantry. "Thank you for showing it to me. I'll
be more careful now."
"See that you are," Laras said, shaking out of her shock. "Otherwise, you'll see what a real punishment is
like, not those halfhearted paddlings the Mistress of Novices gives. Now back to work with you."
Egwene nodded, hurrying back toward the fireplace. Katerine held up a hand to forestall her. Egwene's
heart thumped traitorously.
"No need," Katerine said. "The Amyrlin has demanded that the novice attend her tonight at dinner. I told
the Amyrlin that one day of work would hardly break someone as foolishly stubborn as this child, but she
is insistent. I guess you are to be given your first chance to prove your humility, child. I suggest you take
it."
Egwene glanced down at her blackened hands and soiled dress.
"Go, run," Katerine said. "Wash up and clean yourself. The Amyrlin will not be kept waiting."
Washing up proved to be nearly as difficult as cleaning the fireplace. The soot had stained her hands
much in the way it had the work dress. Egwene spent the better part of an hour washing in a tub full of
lukewarm water, trying to make herself presentable. Her fingernails were ragged from scraping the bricks,
and it seemed that each time she rinsed her hair, she washed out an entire bucket's worth of soot flakes.
However, she was glad for the chance. She rarely had much time for bathing; usually she could not stop
for more than a quick scrub. As she rinsed and scrubbed in the small, gray-tiled bathing chamber, she
considered her next step.
She had turned down the opportunity to flee. That meant she had to work with Elaida and her Reds, the
only sisters she saw. But could they
IN THE WHITE TOWER
265
be made to see their errors? She wished she could send the whole lot of them for penance and be rid of
them.
But no. She was Amyrlin; she represented all Ajahs, including the Red. She couldn't treat them as Elaida
had treated the Blues. They were the most antagonistic toward her, but that meant a greater challenge. She
seemed to be making some headway with Silviana, and hadn't Lirene Doirellin admitted that Elaida had
made serious mistakes?
Maybe the Reds weren't the only ones she could influence. There were always chance meetings with other
sisters in the hallways. If one of them approached her to speak, the Reds couldn't very well tow her away.
They would show some decorum, and that would give Egwene a chance to interact a bit with other sisters.
But how to treat Elaida herself? Was it wise to let the false Amyrlin continue to think that Egwene was
nearly cowed? Or was it time to make a stand?
By the end of her bath, Egwene felt a great deal cleaner and a great deal more confident. Her war had
taken a serious turn for the worse, but she could still fight. She ran a hurried brush through her wet hair,
threw on a new novice dress—my, how good it felt to have the soft, clean fabric on her skin!—and left to
join her handlers.
They escorted her up to the Amyrlin's chambers. Egwene passed several groups of sisters, and she held
herself carefully erect for their benefit. The handlers took her through the Red sector of the Tower, the
tiles on the floor shifting to a pattern of red and charcoal. There were more people walking about here,
women in their shawls, servants bearing the Flame of Tar Valon on their chests. Never any Warders; that
always felt strange to Egwene, since they were so common in other parts of the Tower.
A long climb and a few twists later, they arrived at Elaida's quarters. Egwene checked her skirts
unconsciously. She had determined during the walk that she needed to approach Elaida with silence, just
as she had last time. Riling her further would only lead to more restrictions. Egwene would not debase
herself, but neither would she go out of her way to insult Elaida. Let the woman think as she wished.
A servant opened the door, leading Egwene in, and into the dining chamber. There, she was shocked by
what she found. She had assumed she'd attend Elaida alone, or maybe with Meidani. Egwene hadn't for a
moment considered that the dining room would be filled with women. There were five, one from each
Ajah save the Red and the Blue. And each
266
THE GATHERING STORM
woman was a Sitter. Yukiri was there, as was Doesine, both from the clandestine hunters of the Black
Ajah. Ferane was there, though she seemed surprised to see Egwene; had the White not known about this
dinner earlier, or had she simply not mentioned it?
Rubinde, of the Green Ajah, sat beside Shevan of the Brown, a sister whom Egwene had been wanting to
meet. Shevan was one of those who supported negotiating with the rebel Aes Sedai, and Egwene hoped to
be able to nudge her more toward helping unify the White Tower from within.
There wasn't a Red sister at the table other than Elaida. Was that because the Red Sitters were all out of
the Tower? Perhaps Elaida thought the room balanced with her there, as she still thought of herself as
Red, although she wasn't supposed to.
It was a long table, crystal goblets sparkling and reflecting light from the ornate bronze standlamps,
running along the walls painted a rusty red-yellow in color. Each woman wore a fine gown in the color of
her Ajah. The room smelled of succulent meats and steamed carrots. The women chatted. Amicable, but
forced. Tense. They didn't want to be there.
Across the room, Doesine nodded to Egwene, almost in respect. It was an indication of something. "I'm
here because you said that this sort of thing was important," it seemed to say. Elaida sat at the head of the
table, wearing a red dress with full sleeves, uncut garnets trimming them and the bodice, her face bearing
a satisfied smile. Servants bustled back and forth, pouring wine and bringing food. Why had Elaida called
a dinner of Sitters? Was this an attempt to heal the rifts in the White Tower? Had Egwene misjudged her?
"Ah, good," Elaida said, noticing Egwene. "You've finally arrived. Come here, child."
Egwene did so, walking through the room, the last few Sitters catching notice of her. Some seemed
confused, others made curious, by her presence. As she walked, Egwene realized something.
This one evening could easily undo all that she'd worked for.
If the Aes Sedai here saw her subserviently waiting on Elaida, Egwene would lose integrity in their eyes.
Elaida had declared that Egwene was cowed—but Egwene had proven otherwise. If she bent to Elaida's
will here, even a little, it would be seen as proof.
Light burn the woman! Why had she invited so many of the women that Egwene had been working to
influence? Was it simple happenstance? Egwene joined the false Amyrlin at the head of the table, and a
IN THE WHITE TOWER
267
servant handed her a crystal pitcher of glistening red wine. "You are to keep my cup full," Elaida said.
"Wait there, but don't come too close. I'd rather not have to smell the soot on you from your punishments
this afternoon."
Egwene clenched her jaw. Smell the soot? After an hour of scrubbing? Doubtful. From the side, she could
see the satisfaction in Elaida's eyes as she sipped her wine. Then Elaida turned to Shevan, who sat in the
chair to Elaida's right. The Brown was a lanky woman, with knobbed arms and an angular face, like a
person made of gnarled sticks. Her eyes were thoughtful as she studied her hostess.
"Tell me, Shevan," Elaida said. "Do you still insist on those foolish talks with the rebels?"
Shevan responded. "The sisters must be given a chance to reconcile."
"They've had their chance," Elaida said. "Honestly, I expected more of a Brown. You're behaving
doggedly, without a whit of understanding how the real world works. Why, even Meidani agrees with me,
and she's a Gray! You know how they are."
Shevan turned away, seeming more disturbed than before. Why did Elaida invite them to dinner, if only to
insult them and their Ajahs? As Egwene watched, the Red turned her attention to Ferane, and complained
to her about Rubinde, a Sitter from the Green who also resisted Elaida's efforts to end the talks. As she
spoke, she raised her cup to Egwene, tapping it. Elaida had barely taken a few sips.
Egwene ground her teeth, filling the cup. The others had seen her do labor before—why, she'd cracked
walnuts for Ferane. This wouldn't ruin her reputation, not unless Elaida forced her to abase herself
somehow.
But what was the point of this dinner? Elaida didn't seem to be making any attempt to bring the Ajahs
together. If anything, she was prying those rifts wider, the way she was dismissing those who disagreed
with her. Occasionally, she would have Egwene refill her cup, but it never had room for more than a sip
or two.
Slowly, Egwene began to understand. This dinner wasn't about working with the Ajahs. It was about
bullying the Sitters into doing as Elaida felt they should. And Egwene was simply there to be shown off!
This was all about proving to the others how much power Elaida had—she could take someone that others
had named Amyrlin, put a novice dress on her and send her to penance every day.
Egwene felt herself grow angry again. Why could Elaida always stir her emotions? Soup bowls were
removed and plates of steamed, buttered
268
THE GATHERING STORM
carrots were brought, a hint of cinnamon striking the air. Egwene had not been given dinner, but she felt
too sick to care about eating.
No, she thought, steeling herself. / will not end this early, like last time. I will endure. I am stronger than
Elaida. I'm stronger than her madness.
The conversation continued, Elaida making insulting comments to the others, sometimes with intent,
sometimes with apparent unawareness. The others steered the talk away from the rebels and toward the
strangely overcast skies. Eventually, Shevan mentioned a rumor about the Seanchan working with Aiel
far to the south.
"The Seanchan again?" Elaida said with a sigh. "You needn't worry about them."
"My sources say otherwise, Mother," Shevan said stiffly. "I think we need to pay close attention to what
they are doing. I have had some sisters ask this child about her experience with them, which has been
extensive. You should hear the things they do to Aes Sedai."
Elaida laughed a tinkling, melodic laugh. "Surely you know how the child is prone to exaggerate!" She
glanced at Egwene. "Have you been spreading lies for your friend, the fool al'Thor? What did he tell you
to say about these invaders? They are working for him, are they not?"
Egwene didn't respond.
"Speak," Elaida said, gesturing with her cup. "Tell these women you have been speaking lies. Confess or
I'll have you in penance again, girl."
The penance she would take for not speaking would be better than suffering Elaida's rage at contradicting
her. Silence was the path to victory.
And yet, as Egwene glanced down the long mahogany table, set with bright white Sea Folk porcelain and
flickering red candles, she saw five pairs of eyes studying her. She could see their questions. Egwene had
spoken boldly to them when alone, but would she hold to her assertions now, faced by the most powerful
woman in the world? A woman who held Egwene's life in her hands?
Was Egwene the Amyrlin? Or was she just a girl who liked to pretend?
Light hum you, Elaida, she thought, gritting her teeth, seeing that she had been wrong. Silence wouldn't
lead to victory, not in front of these women. You are not going to like how this proceeds.
"The Seanchan are not working for Rand," Egwene said. "And they are a severe danger to the White
Tower. I have spread no lies. To say otherwise would be to betray the Three Oaths."
"You haven't taken the Three Oaths," Elaida said sternly, turning toward her.
IN THE WHITE TOWER
269
"I have," Egwene said. "I've held no Oath Rod, but it isn't the Rod that makes my words true. I have
spoken the words of the oaths in my heart, and to me they are more dear, for I have nothing forcing me to
hold to them. And by that oath holding me, I tell you again. I am a Dreamer, and I have Dreamed that the
Seanchan will attack the White Tower."
Elaida's eyes flared for a moment, and she gripped her fork until her knuckles whitened. Egwene held her
eyes, and finally Elaida laughed again. "Ah, stubborn as ever, I see. I shall have to tell Katerine that she
was right. You'll have penance for your exaggerations, child."
"These women know I don't speak lies," Egwene said calmly. "And each time you insist that I do, you
lower yourself in their eyes. Even if you disbelieve my Dream, you must admit that the Seanchan are a
threat. They leash women who can channel, using them as weapons with a kind of twisted ter'angreal. I
have felt the collar on my neck. I still feel it, sometimes. In my dreams. My nightmares."
The room fell still.
"You are a foolish child," Elaida said, obviously trying to pretend that Egwene was no threat. She should
have turned to look at the eyes of the others. If she had, she'd have seen the truth. "Well, you have forced
my hand. You will kneel before me, child, and beg forgiveness. Right now. Otherwise, I will lock you
away alone. Is that what you want? Don't think that the beatings will stop, however. You'll still get your
daily penance, you'll just be thrown back into your cell after each one. Now, kneel and beg forgiveness."
The Sitters glanced at one another. There was no backing down now. Egwene wished it hadn't come to
this. But it had, and Elaida had demanded a fight.
It was time to give her one. "And if I do not bow before you?" Egwene asked, meeting the woman's eyes.
"What then?"
"You will kneel, one way or another," Elaida growled, embracing the Source.
"You'll use the Power on me?" Egwene asked calmly. "Do you have to resort to that? Have you no
authority without channeling?"
Elaida paused. "It is within my rights to discipline one who isn't showing proper respect."
"And so you will make me obey," Egwene said. "Is this what you will do to everyone in the Tower,
Elaida? An Ajah opposes you, and it is disbanded. Someone displeases you, and you try to destroy her
right to be
270
THE GATHERING STORM
Aes Sedai. You will have every sister bowing down before you by the end of this."
"Nonsense!"
"Oh?" Egwene asked. "And have you told them about your idea for a new oath? Sworn on the Oath Rod
by every sister, an oath to obey the Amyrlin and support her?"
"Deny it," Egwene said. "Deny that you made the statement. Will the Oaths let you?"
Elaida froze. If she were Black, she could deny it, Oath Rod or not. But either way, Meidani could
substantiate what Egwene had said.
"It was idle talk," Elaida said. "Just speculation, thoughts spoken out loud."
"There is often truth in speculation," Egwene said. "You locked the Dragon Reborn himself in a box; you
just threatened to do the same to me, in front of all of these witnesses. People call him a tyrant, but you
are the one destroying our laws and ruling by fear."
Elaida's eyes opened wide, her anger visible. She seemed . . . shocked. As if she couldn't understand how
she'd gone from disciplining an unruly novice into debating an equal. Egwene saw the woman begin to
weave a thread of Air. That had to be stopped. A gag of Air would end this debate.
"Go ahead," Egwene said calmly. "Use the Power to silence me. As Amyrlin, shouldn't you be able to talk
an opponent into obedience, rather than resorting to force?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Egwene saw diminutive Yukiri, of the Gray, nod at that comment.
Elaida's eyes flared in anger as she dropped the thread of Air. "I don't need to rebut a mere novice,"
Elaida snapped. "The Amyrlin doesn't explain herself to one such as you."
" 'The Amyrlin understands the most complex of creeds and debates,' " Egwene said, quoting from
memory. " 'Yet in the end, she is the servant of all, even the lowest of laborers.'" That had been said by
Bal-ladare Arandaille, the first Amyrlin to be raised from the Brown Ajah. She'd used the words in her
last writings before her death; those writings had been an explanation of her reign and what she had done
during the Kavarthen wars. Arandaille had felt that once a crisis was passed, it was the moral duty of an
Amyrlin to explain herself to the common people.
Sitting beside Elaida, Shevan nodded appreciatively. The quote was
IN THE WHITE TOWER
271
somewhat obscure; Egwene blessed Siuan's quiet training in the wisdom of the former Amyrlins. Much of
what she'd said had come from the secret histories, but there had been a number of nuggets from women
such as Balladare as well.
"What is this nonsense you're sputtering?" Elaida spat.
"What did you intend to do with Rand al'Thor once you captured him?" Egwene said, ignoring the
comment.
"I don't—"
"You're not answering me" Egwene said, nodding to the table of women, "but them. Have you explained
yourself, Elaida? What were your plans? Or will you dodge this question just as you have the others I've
asked?"
Elaida's face was turning red, but she calmed herself with some effort. "I would have kept him secure, and
well shielded, here in the Tower until it was time for the Last Battle. That would have prevented him from
causing the suffering and chaos he's created in many nations. It was worth the risk of angering him."
" 'As the plow breaks the earth shall he break the lives of men, and all that was shall be consumed in the
fire of his eyes,' " Egwene said. " 'The trumpets of war shall sound at his footsteps, the ravens feed at his
voice, and he shall wear a crown of swords.' "
Elaida frowned, taken aback.
"The Karaethon Cycle, Elaida," Egwene said. "When you had Rand locked away to be kept 'secure,' had
he yet taken Illian? Had he yet worn what he was to name the Crown of Swords?"
"Well, no."
"And how did you expect him to fulfill the prophecies if he was hidden away in the White Tower?"
Egwene said. "How was he to cause war, as the prophecies say he must? How was he to break the nations
and bind them to him? How could he 'slay his people with the sword of peace' or 'bind the nine moons to
serve him' if he was locked away? Do the prophecies say that he will be 'unfettered'? Do they not speak of
the 'chaos of his passing?' How can anything pass at all if he is kept in chains?"
"I___"
"Your logic is astounding, Elaida," Egwene said coldly. At that, Fer-ane smiled slyly; she was probably
thinking yet again that Egwene would fit well in the White Ajah.
"Bah," Elaida said, "you ask meaningless questions. The prophecies would have to have been fulfilled.
There was no other way."
272
THE GATHERING STORM
"So you're saying that your attempt to bind him was destined to fail."
"No, not at all," Elaida said, red-faced again. "We shouldn't be bothering with this—it's not for you to
decide upon. No, we should be talking about your rebels, and what they've done to the White Tower!"
A good turn of the conversation, an attempt to put Egwene on the defensive. Elaida wasn't completely
incompetent. Just arrogant.
"I see them trying to heal the rift between us," Egwene said. "We cannot change what has happened. We
can't change what you did to Siuan, even if those with me did discover a method of Healing her stilling.
We can only move forward and try our best to smooth the scars. What are you doing, Elaida? Refusing
talks, trying to bully the Sitters into withdrawing? Insulting Ajahs that are not your own?"
Doesine, of the Yellow, gave a quiet murmur of agreement. That drew Elaida's eyes, and she fell silent for
a moment, as if realizing that she had lost control of the debate. "Enough of this."
"Coward," Egwene said.
Elaida's eyes flared wide. "How dare you!"
"I dare the truth, Elaida," Egwene said quietly. "You are a coward and a tyrant. I'd name you Darkfriend
as well, but I suspect that the Dark One would perhaps be embarrassed to associate with you."
Elaida screeched, weaving in a flash of Power, slamming Egwene back against the wall, toppling the
pitcher of wine from her hands. It shattered on a patch of wooden floor beside the rug, throwing a spray of
bloodlike liquid across the table and half of its occupants, staining the white tablecloth with a smear of
red.
"You name me Darkfriend?" Elaida screamed. "You are the Darkfriend. You and those rebels outside,
who seek to distract me from doing what must be done."
A blast of woven Air slammed Egwene against the wall again, and she dropped to the ground, hitting
shards of the broken pitcher that sliced open her arms. A dozen switches beat her, ripping her clothing.
Blood seeped from her arms, and it began to splash into the air, smirching the wall as Elaida beat her.
"Elaida, stop it!" Rubinde said, standing, green dress swishing. "Are you mad?"
Elaida turned, panting. "Do not tempt me, Green!"
The switches continuing to beat Egwene. She bore it silently. With effort, she stood up. She could feel her
face and arms swelling already. But she maintained a calm gaze at Elaida.
IN THE WHITE TOWER
273
"Elaida!" Ferane yelled, standing. "You violate Tower law! You cannot use the Power to punish an
initiate!"
"I am Tower law!" Elaida raved. She pointed at the sisters. "You mock me. I know you do it. Behind my
back. You show me deference when you see me, but I know what you say, what you whisper. You
ungrateful fools! After what I've done for you! Do you think I'll suffer you forever? Take this one as an
example!"
She spun, pointing at Egwene, then stumbled back in shock to find Egwene calmly watching her. Elaida
gasped softly, raising a hand to her breast as the switches beat. They could all see the weaves, and they
could all see that Egwene did not scream, although her mouth was not gagged with Air. Her arms dripped
blood, her body was beaten before them, and yet she found no reason to scream. Instead, she quietly
blessed the Aiel Wise Ones for their wisdom.
"And what," Egwene said evenly, "am I to be an example of, Elaida?"
The beating continued. Oh, how it hurt! Tears formed in the corners of Egwene's eyes, but she had felt
worse. Far worse. She felt it each time she thought of what this woman was doing to the institution she
loved. Her true pain was not from the wounds, but from how Elaida had acted before the Sitters.
"By the Light," Rubinde whispered.
"I wish I weren't needed here, Elaida," Egwene said softly. "I wish that the Tower had a grand Amyrlin in
you. I wish I could step down and accept your rule. I wish you deserved it. I would willingly accept
execution, if it would mean leaving a competent Amyrlin. The White Tower is more important than I am.
Can you say the same?"
"You want execution!" Elaida bellowed, recovering her tongue. "Well, you shall not have it! Death is too
good for you, Darkfriend! I shall see you beaten—everyone shall see you beaten—until I am through with
you. Only then will you die!" She turned to the servants, who stood, gaping, at the sides of the room.
"Send for soldiers! I want this one cast into the deepest cell this Tower can provide! Let it be voiced
through the city that Egwene al'Vere is a Darkfriend who has rejected the Amyrlin's grace!"
Servants ran to do as she demanded. The switches continued to beat, but Egwene was growing numb. She
closed her eyes, feeling faint—she had lost much blood from her left arm, which bore the deepest of her
gashes.
It had come to a head, as she'd feared that it would. She had cast her lot.
274
THE GATHERING STORM
But she didn't fear for her life. Instead, she feared for the White Tower. As she leaned back against the
wall, thoughts fading, she was overcome with sorrow.
Her battle from within the Tower was at an end, one way or another.
CHAPTER 17
Questions of Control
Y
ou should be more careful," Sarene said from inside the room. "The Amyrlin Seat, we have much
influence with her. Your punishments, we may be able to persuade her to lessen them, if you are helpful."
Semirhage's sniff of disdain was quite audible to Cadsuane, listening from the hallway outside the
interrogation room, sitting in a comfortable log chair. Cadsuane sipped at a cup of warm sweatleaf. The
hallway was of simple wood, carpeted with a long maroon and white rug, prismlike lamps on the walls
flickering with light.
There were several others in the hallway with her—Daigian, Erian, Elza—whose turn it was to maintain
Semirhage's shield. Aside from Cadsuane, each Aes Sedai in the camp took turns. It was too dangerous to
risk forcing the duty only on the Aes Sedai of lesser stature, lest they grow weary. The shield had to
remain strong. Light only knew what would happen if Semirhage got free.
Cadsuane sipped her tea, her back to the wall. Al'Thor had insisted that "his" Aes Sedai be allowed
opportunities to interrogate Semirhage, instead of just those Cadsuane had chosen. She wasn't certain if
this was some attempt at asserting his authority or if he genuinely thought that they might succeed where
she—so far—had failed.
Anyway, that was why Sarene was doing the questioning today. The
275
276
THE GATHERING STORM
Taraboner White was a thoughtful person, completely unaware that she was one of the most beautiful
women to gain the shawl in years. Her nonchalance was not unexpected, as she was of the White Ajah,
who could often be as oblivious as Browns. Sarene also didn't know that Cadsuane was outside
eavesdropping, through the use of a small weave of Spirit. It was a simple trick, one often learned by
novices. Mixing it with this newly found trick of inverting one's weaves meant that Cadsuane could listen
in without anyone inside knowing that she was there.
The Aes Sedai outside saw what she was doing, of course, but none said anything. Even though two of
them—Elza and Erian—were among the group of fools who had sworn fealty to the al'Thor boy, they
stepped lightly around her; they knew how she regarded them. Idiot women. At times, it seemed that half
of her allies were only determined to make her job harder.
Sarene continued her interrogation inside. Most of the Aes Sedai in the manor had now given questioning
a try. Brown, Green, White and Yellow—all had failed. Cadsuane herself had yet to address any questions
to the Forsaken personally. The other Aes Sedai looked at her as an almost mythic figure, a reputation she
had nurtured. She'd stayed away from the White Tower for many decades at a time, ensuring that many
would assume she was dead. When she reappeared, it made a stir. She'd gone hunting false Dragons, both
because it was necessary and because each man she captured added to her reputation with the other Aes
Sedai.
All of her work pointed at these final days. Light blind her if she was going to let that al'Thor boy ruin it
all now!
She covered her scowl by taking a sip of her tea. She was slowly losing control, thread by thread. Once,
something as dramatic as the squabbles at the White Tower would have drawn her immediate attention.
But she couldn't begin to work on that problem. Creation itself was unraveling, and her only way to fight
that was to turn all her efforts on al'Thor.
And he resisted her every attempt to aid him. Step by step he was becoming a man with insides like stone,
unmoving and unable to adapt. A statue with no feelings could not face the Dark One.
Blasted boy! And now there was Semirhage, continuing to defy her. Cadsuane itched to go in and
confront the woman, but Merise had asked the very questions Cadsuane would have, and she had failed.
How long would Cadsuane's image remain intact if she proved herself as impotent as the others?
QUESTIONS OF CONTROL
277
Sarene began to talk again.
"The Aes Sedai, you should not treat them so," Sarene said, voice calm.
"Aes Sedai?" Semirhage responded, chuckling. "Don't you feel ashamed, using that term to describe
yourselves? Like a puppy calling itself a wolf!"
"We may not know everything, I admit, but—"
"You know nothing," Semirhage replied. "You are children playing with your parents' toys."
Cadsuane tapped the side of her tea cup with her index finger. Again, she was struck by the similarities
between herself and Semirhage—and again, those similarities made her insides itch.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a slender serving woman climb the steps carrying a plate of beans
and steamed radishes for Semirhage's midday meal. Time already? Sarene had been interrogating the
Forsaken for three hours, and she had been talked neatly in circles the entire time. The serving woman
approached and Cadsuane waved for her to enter.
A moment later, the tray crashed to the floor. At the sound, Cadsuane leaped to her feet, embracing
saidar, quite nearly rushing into the room. Semirhage's voice made Cadsuane hesitate.
"I will not eat that," the Forsaken said, in control, as always. "I have grown tired of your swill. You will
bring me something appropriate."
"If we do," Sarene's voice said, obviously snatching for any advantage, "will you answer our questions?"
"Perhaps," Semirhage replied. "We shall see if it fits my mood."
There was silence, Cadsuane glanced at the other women in the hall, all of whom had leaped to their feet
at the sound, although they couldn't hear the voices. She motioned them to sit down.
"Go and fetch her something else," Sarene said, speaking inside the room to the serving woman. "And
send someone to clean this up." The door opened, then shut quickly as the servant hurried away.
Sarene continued, "This next question, it will determine if you actually get to eat that meal or not."
Despite the firm voice, Cadsuane could hear a quickness to Sarene's words. The sudden drop of the tray
of food had startled her. They were all so jumpy around the Forsaken. They weren't deferential, but they
did treat Semirhage with a measure of respect. How could they not? She was a legend. One did not enter
the presence of such a creature—one of the most evil beings ever to live—and not feel at least a measure
of awe.
278
THE GATHERING STORM
Measure of awe. . . .
"That's our mistake," Cadsuane whispered. She blinked, then turned and opened the door into the room.
Semirhage stood in the center of the small chamber. She had been retied in Air, the weaves likely woven
the moment that she'd dropped her tray. The brass platter lay discarded, the beans soaking juice into the
aged wooden boards. This room had no window; it had been a storage chamber at one point, converted
into a "cell" to hold the Forsaken. Sarene—dark hair in beaded braids, beautiful face surprised at the
intrusion—sat in a chair before Semirhage. Her Warder, Vitalien, broad-shouldered and ashen-faced,
stood in the corner.
Semirhage's head was not bound, and her eyes nicked toward Cadsuane.
Cadsuane had committed herself; she had to confront the woman now. Fortunately, what she planned
didn't require much delicacy. It all came back to a single question. How would Cadsuane break herself?
The solution was easy, now that it occurred to her.
"Ah," Cadsuane said with a no-nonsense attitude. "I see that the child has refused her meal. Sarene,
release your weaves."
Semirhage raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to scoff, but as Sarene released her weaves of Air,
Cadsuane grabbed Semirhage by the hair and—with a casual sweep of her foot—knocked the woman's
legs out from beneath her, dropping her to the floor.
Perhaps she could have used the Power, but it felt right to use her hands for this. She prepared a few
weaves, though she probably wouldn't need them. Semirhage, though tall, was a woman of willowy build,
and Cadsuane herself had always been more stout than she was slim. Plus, the Forsaken seemed utterly
dumbfounded at how she was being treated.
Cadsuane knelt down with one knee on the woman's back, then shoved her face forward into the spilled
food. "Eat," she said. "I don't approve of wasted food, child, particularly during these times."
Semirhage sputtered, releasing a few phrases that Cadsuane could only assume were oaths, though she
didn't recognize any of them. The meanings were likely lost in time. Soon, the oaths subsided and
Semirhage grew still. She didn't fight back. Cadsuane wouldn't have either; that would only hurt her
image. Semirhage's power as a captive came from the fear and respect that the Aes Sedai gave her.
Cadsuane needed to change that.
"Your chair, please," she said to Sarene.
QUESTIONS OF CONTROL
279
The White stood, looking shocked. They had tried all measure of torture available to them under al'Thor's
requirements, but each of those had betrayed esteem. They were treating Semirhage as a dangerous force
and a worthy enemy. That would only bolster her ego.
"Are you going to eat?" Cadsuane asked.
"I will kill you," Semirhage said calmly. "First, before all of the others. I will make them listen to you
scream."
"I see," Cadsuane replied. "Sarene, go tell the three Sisters outside to come in." Cadsuane paused,
thoughtful. "Also, I saw some maids cleaning rooms on the other side of the hallway. Fetch them for me
as well."
Sarene nodded, rushing from the room. Cadsuane sat in the chair, then wove threads of Air and picked
Semirhage up. Elza and Erian glanced into the room, looking very curious. Then they entered, Sarene
following. A few moments later, Daigian entered with five servants: three Domani women in aprons, one
spindly man, his fingers brown with stain from re-coating logs, and a single serving boy. Excellent.
As they entered, Cadsuane used her threads of Air to turn Semirhage around across her knee. And then
she proceeded to spank the Forsaken.
Semirhage held out at first. Then she began to curse. Then she began to sputter out threats. Cadsuane
continued, her hand beginning to hurt. Semirhage's threats turned to howls of outrage and pain. The
serving girl with the food returned in the middle of it, adding even more to Semirhage's shame. The Aes
Sedai watched with slack jaws.
"Now," Cadsuane said after a few moments, breaking into one of Semirhage's howls of pain. "Will you
eat?"
"I'll find everyone you've ever loved," the Forsaken said, tears in her eyes, "I'll feed them to each other
while you watch. I'll—"
Cadsuane "tsk"ed and began again. The crowd in the room watched in amazed silence. Semirhage began
to cry—not from the pain, but from the humiliation. That was the key. Semirhage could not be defeated
by pain or by persuasion—but destroying her image, that would be more terrible in her mind than any
other punishment. Just as it would have been for Cadsuane.
Cadsuane stilled her hand after a few more minutes, releasing the weaves that held Semirhage motionless.
"Will you eat?" she asked.
"I—"
Cadsuane raised her hand, and Semirhage practically leaped off of her lap and scrambled onto the floor,
eating the beans.
280
THE GATHERING STORM
"She is a person," Cadsuane said, looking at the others. "Just a person, like any of us. She has secrets, but
any young boy can have a secret that he refuses to tell. Remember that."
Cadsuane stood and walked to the door. She hesitated beside Sarene, who watched with fascination as the
Forsaken ate beans off of the floor. "You may want to begin carrying a hairbrush with you," Cadsuane
added. "That can be quite hard on your hands."
Sarene smiled. "Yes, Cadsuane Sedai."
Now, Cadsuane thought, leaving the room, what to do about al'Thor?
"My Lord," Grady said, rubbing his weathered face, "I don't think you understand."
"Then explain it to me," Perrin said. He stood on a hillside, looking down over the huge gathering of
refugees and soldiers. Mismatched tents of many different designs—tan, single-peaked Aiel structures;
colorful large Cairhienin ones; two-tipped tents of basic design—sprang up as the people prepared for the
night.
The Shaido Aiel, as hoped, had not given chase. They had let Perrin's army withdraw, though his scouts
said that they had now moved in to investigate the city. Either way, it meant Perrin had time. Time to rest,
time to limp away, time—he'd hoped—to use gateways to transport away most of these refugees.
Light, but it was a big group. Thousands upon thousands of people, a nightmare to coordinate and
administer to. His last few days had been filled with an endless stream of complaints, objections,
judgments and papers. Where did Balwer find so much paper? It seemed to satisfy many of the people
who came to Perrin. Judgments and the settlement of disputes seemed so much more official to them
when a piece of paper outlined them. Balwer said Perrin would need a seal.
The work had been distracting, which was good. But Perrin knew he couldn't push aside his problems for
long. Rand pulled him northward. Perrin had to march for the Last Battle. Nothing else mattered.
And yet, that very single-mindedness in him—ignoring everything but his objective—had been the source
of much trouble during his hunt for Faile. He had to find a balance, somehow. He needed to decide for
himself if he wanted to lead these people. He needed to make peace with the wolf inside himself, the
beast that raged when he went into battle.
But before he could do any of that, he needed to get the refugees
QUESTIONS OF CONTROL
281
home. That was proving a problem. "You've had time to rest now, Grady," Perrin said.
"The fatigue is only one part of it, my Lord," Grady said. "Though, honestly, I still feel as if I could sleep
a week's time."
He did look tired. Grady was a stalwart man, with the face of a farmer and the temperament of one, too.
Perrin would trust this man to do his duty before most lords he'd known. But Grady could be pushed only
so far. What did it do to a man, to have to channel so much? Grady had bags beneath his eyes, and his
face was pale despite his tanned skin. Though he was still a young man, he'd started to go gray.
Light, but I used this man too hard, Perrin thought. Him and Neald both. That had been another effect of
Perrin's single-mindedness, as he was beginning to see. What he'd done to Aram, how he'd allowed those
around him to go without leadership. . . . / have to fix this. I have to find a way to deal with it all.
If he didn't, he might not get to the Last Battle.
"Here's the thing, my Lord." Grady rubbed his chin again, surveying the camp. The various
contingents—Mayeners, Alliandre's guard, the Two Rivers men, the Aiel, the refugees from various
cities—all camped separately, in their own rings. "There are some hundred thousand people who need to
get home. The ones that will leave, anyway. Many say they feel safer here, with you."
"They can give over wanting that," Perrin said. "They belong with their families."
"And the ones whose families are in Seanchan lands?" Grady shrugged. "Before the invaders came, many
of these people would be happy to return. But now . . . Well, they keep talking about staying where there's
food and protection."
"We can still send the ones who want to go," Perrin said. "We'll travel lighter without them."
Grady shook his head. "That's the thing, my Lord. Your man, Balwer, he gave us a count. I can make a
gateway big enough for about two men to walk through at once. If you figure them taking one second to
go through . . . Well, it would take hours and hours to send them all. I don't know the number, but he
claimed it would be days' worth of work. And he said that his estimates were probably too optimistic. My
Lord, I could barely keep a gateway open an hour, with how tired I am."
Perrin gritted his teeth. He'd have to get those numbers from Balwer himself, but he had a sinking feeling
that Balwer would be right.
282
THE GATHERING STORM
"We'll keep marching, then," Perrin said. "Moving north. Each day, we'll have you and Neald make
gateways and return some of the people to their homes. But don't tire yourselves."
Grady nodded, eyes hollow from fatigue. Perhaps it would be best to wait a few more days before starting
the process. Perrin nodded a dismissal to the Dedicated, and Grady jogged back down into camp. Perrin
remained on the hillside, inspecting the various sections of the camp as the people prepared for the
evening meal. The wagons sat at the center of the camp, laden with food that—he feared—would run out
before he could reach Andor. Or should he go around to Cairhien? That was where he had last seen Rand,
though his visions of the man made it seem he wasn't in either country. He doubted the Queen of Andor
would welcome him with open arms, after the rumors about him and that blasted Red Eagle banner.
Perrin left that problem alone for the moment. The camp seemed to be settling in. Each ring of tents sent
representatives to the central food depot to claim their evening rations. Each group was in charge of its
own meals; Perrin just oversaw the distribution of materials. He made out the quartermaster—a
Cairhienin named Bavin Rockshaw—standing on the back of a wagon, dealing with each representative
in turn.
Satisfied with his inspection, Perrin walked down into the camp, passing through the Cairhienin tents on
the way to his own tents, which were with the Two Rivers men.
He took his enhanced senses for granted, now. They had come along with the yellowing of his eyes. Most
people around him didn't seem to notice those anymore, but he was starkly reminded of the contrast when
he met anyone new. Many of the Cairhienin refugees, for instance, paused in their labors setting up tents.
They watched him as he passed, whispering, "Goldeneyes."
He didn't much care for the name. Aybara was the name of his family, and he bore it proudly. He was one
of the few who could pass it on. Trollocs had seen to that.
He shot a glance at a nearby group of the refugees, and they hastily turned back to pounding in tent
stakes. As they did, Perrin passed a couple of Two Rivers men—Tod al'Caar and Jori Congar. They saw
him and saluted, fists to hearts. To them, Perrin Goldeneyes wasn't a person to fear, but one to respect,
although they did still whisper about that night he'd spent in Berelain's tent. Perrin wished he could escape
the shadow of that event. The men were still enthusiastic and energized by their defeat
QUESTIONS OF CONTROL
283
of the Shaido, but it hadn't been too long ago that Perrin had felt he wasn't welcome among them.
Still, for the moment, these two seemed to have set aside that displeasure. Instead, they saluted. Had they
forgotten that Perrin had grown up with them? What of the times when Jori had made sport of Perrin's
slow tongue, or the times when he'd stopped by the forge to brag about which girls he'd managed to steal
a kiss from?
Perrin just nodded back. No use in digging up the past, not when their allegiance to "Perrin Goldeneyes"
had helped rescue Faile. Though, as he left them, his too-keen ears caught the two of them chatting about
the battle, just a few days past, and their part of it. One of them still smelled like blood; he hadn't cleaned
his boots. He probably didn't even notice the bloodstained mud.
Sometimes, Perrin wondered if his senses weren't actually any better than anyone else's. He took the time
to notice things that others ignored. How could they miss that scent of blood? And the crisp air of the
mountains to the north? It smelled of home, though they were many leagues from the Two Rivers. If other
men took the time to close their eyes and pay attention, would they be able to smell what he did? If they
opened those eyes and looked closer at the world around them, would men call their eyes "keen" as they
did Perrin's?
No. That was just fancy. His senses were better; his kinship with the wolves had changed him. He hadn't
thought of that kinship in a while— he'd been too focused on Faile. But he'd stopped feeling so
self-conscious about his eyes. They were part of him. No use grumbling about them.
And yet, that rage he felt when he fought . . . that loss of control. It worried him, more and more. The first
time he'd felt it had been that night, so long ago, fighting Whitecloaks. For a time, Perrin hadn't known if
he was a wolf or a man.
And now—during one of his recent visits to the wolf dream—he'd tried to kill Hopper. In the wolf dream,
death was final. Perrin had almost lost himself that day. Thinking of it awakened old fears, fears he'd
shoved aside. Fears relating to a man, behaving like a wolf, locked in a cage.
He continued down the pathway to his tent, making some decisions. He'd pursued Faile with
determination, avoiding the wolf dream as he'd avoided all of his responsibilities. He'd claimed that
nothing else had mattered. But he knew that the truth was much more difficult. He'd focused on Faile
because he loved her so much, but—in addition—he'd done so because it had been convenient. Her rescue
had been an excuse to
284
THE GATHERING STORM
avoid things like his discomfort with leadership and the blurred truce between himself and the wolf inside
of himself.
He had rescued Faile, but so many things were still wrong. The answers might lie in his dreams.
It was time to return.
CHAPTER 18
A Message in Haste
Siuan froze—basket of dirty laundry on her hip—the moment she walked into the Aes Sedai camp. It was
her own laundry, this time. She'd finally realized that she didn't need to do both hers and Bryne's. Why
not let the novices put in some time on her washing? There were certainly enough of them these days.
And every one of them crowded the walkway around the pavilion at the center of camp. They stood
arm-to-arm, a wall of white topped by heads of hair in every natural hue. No ordinary meeting of the Hall
would have drawn such attention. Something must be going on.
Siuan set the wicker laundry basket on a stump, then pulled a towel over it. She didn't trust that sky,
although it hadn't rained more than the occasional drizzle in the past week. Don't trust a dockmaster's sky.
Words to live by. Even if the consequence only meant a basket of wet clothing, soiled at that.
She hurried across the dirt road and stepped up onto one of the wooden walkways. The rough boards
shifted slightly underfoot and creaked with her footfalls as she hurried towards the pavilion. There was
talk of replacing the walkways with something more permanent, perhaps as expensive as paving stones.
She reached the backs of the gathered women. The last meeting of the Hall that had drawn this level of
attention had revealed that Asha'man
285
286
THE GATHERING STORM
had bonded sisters and that the taint itself had been cleansed. Light send that there weren't any surprises
of that size waiting! Her nerves were taut enough, dealing with Gareth bloody Bryne. Suggesting that she
let him teach her how to hold a sword, just in case. She'd never thought that swords were much use.
Besides, who ever heard of an Aes Sedai with a weapon, fighting like a crazed Aiel? Honestly, that man.
She bullied her way through the novices, annoyed that she had to get their attention in order to make them
let her pass. They gave way as soon as they saw a sister passing through them, of course, but they were so
distracted that it took work to move them out of the way. She chided a few of them for not being about
their duties. Where was Tiana? She should have had these girls back to their chores. If Rand al'Thor
himself bloody appeared in camp, the novices should continue their lessons!
Finally, near the pavilion flaps, she found the woman she'd expected. Sheriam, as Egwene's Keeper,
couldn't enter the Hall without the Amyr-lin. And so she was reduced to waiting outside. It was probably
better than stewing back in her tent.
The fire-haired woman had lost a fair bit of her plumpness over the previous weeks. She really needed to
commission new dresses; her old ones were beginning to hang on her. Still, she seemed to have regained
some calm recently, to be less erratic. Perhaps whatever had been ailing her had passed. She'd always
insisted that nothing was wrong in the first place.
"Fish guts," Siuan grumbled as a novice accidentally elbowed her. Siuan glared at the girl, who wilted and
scurried away, her family of novices reluctantly following. Siuan turned back to Sheriam. "So what is it?
Did one of the stable boys turn out to be the King of Tear?"
Sheriam raised an eyebrow. "Elaida has Traveling."
"What?" Siuan asked, glancing into the tent. The seats were filled with Aes Sedai, and lanky
Ashmanaille—of the Gray—was addressing them. Why hadn't this meeting been Sealed to the Flame?
Sheriam nodded. "We found out when Ashmanaille was sent to collect from Kandor." Tributes were one
of the main sources of income for Egwene's Aes Sedai. For many centuries, each kingdom had sent such
donations to Tar Valon. The White Tower no longer relied on that income—it had far better means of
sustaining itself, ones that didn't rely on outside generosity. Still, tributes were never turned away, and
many of the Borderland kingdoms still held to the old ways.
Before the White Tower broke, one of Ashmanaille's duties had been
A MESSAGE IN HASTE
287
to keep track of these donations and send monthly thanks on behalf of the Amyrlin. The split of the White
Tower, and the discovery of Traveling, had made it very easy for Egwene's Aes Sedai to send a
delegation and collect tributes in person. The Kandori chief clerk hadn't cared which of the two White
Tower sides he supported, so long as the tribute was sent, and had been happy to deliver the money to
Ashmanaille directly.
The siege of Tar Valon had made it simple to siphon this coin away from tributes that might have gone to
Elaida, instead using them to pay Bryne's soldiers. A very neat twist of fate. But no sea remained calm
forever.
"The chief clerk was quite livid," Ashmanaille said in her no-nonsense voice. " 'I already paid your money
this month,' he told me. 'I gave it to a woman who came not one day gone. The woman bore a letter from
the Amyrlin herself, sealed properly, which told me to give the money only to a member of the Red Ajah.'
"
"This doesn't say for certain Elaida has Traveling," Romanda noted from inside the tent. "The Red sister
could have gotten to Kandor by other means."
Ashmanaille shook her head. "They saw a gateway made. The chief clerk discovered an accounting error
and sent a scribe out after Elaida's delegation to give them a few extra coins. The man described what he
saw perfectly. The horses were riding through a black hole in the air. It stunned him so deeply that he
called for the guard—but by then Elaida's people were already gone. I interrogated him myself."
"I dislike trusting the word of one man," said Moria, sitting near the front of the group.
"The chief clerk described in detail the woman who took the money from him," Ashmanaille said. "I am
confident that it was Nesita. Perhaps we could discover if she is in the Tower? That would give us further
proof."
Others raised objections, but Siuan ceased to listen closely. Perhaps this was a very clever ruse intended
to distract them, but they couldn't take that chance. Light! Was she the only one with a head on her
shoulders?
She grabbed the nearest novice, a mousy girl who was probably older than she looked—she'd have to be,
since she looked no older than nine. "I need a courier," Siuan informed her. "Fetch one of the messengers
Lord Bryne left at the camp for running news to him. Quickly."
The girl yelped, dashing away.
"What was that about?" Sheriam asked.
"Saving our lives," Siuan said, glaring at the crowding novices. "All
288
THE GATHERING STORM
right!" she growled. "Enough gawking! If your classes are postponed because of this fiasco, then find
some work to do. Any novice still standing on this walkway in ten seconds will find herself doing
penance until she can't count straight!"
That initiated a mass exodus of white, the families of women bustling away with hurried steps. In
moments, only the small group of Accepted remained, along with Sheriam and Siuan. The Accepted
cringed when Siuan glanced at them, but she said nothing. Part of the privilege of being an Accepted was
increased freedom. Besides, as long as Siuan could move without bumping someone, she was satisfied.
"Why wasn't this meeting Sealed to the Flame in the first place?" she asked Sheriam.
"I don't know," Sheriam admitted, glancing into the large tent. "It's daunting news, if it's true."
"This was bound to occur eventually," Siuan said, though she was nowhere near that calm on the inside.
"News of Traveling has to be spreading."
What happened? she thought. They didn't break Egwene, did they? Light send it wasn't her or Leane who was forced
to give up this secret. Beonin. It had to be her. Burn it all!
She shook her head. "Light send that we can keep Traveling secret from the Seanchan. When they do
assault the White Tower, we'll want at least that advantage."
Sheriam eyed her, skepticism showing. Most of the sisters didn't believe Egwene's Dreaming of the
attack. Fools—they wanted to catch the fish, but didn't want to gut it. You didn't raise a woman to
Amyrlin, then treat her warnings lightly.
Siuan waited impatiently, tapping her foot, listening to the conversation inside the tent. Just as she was
beginning to wonder if she'd need to send another novice, one of Bryne's couriers trotted up to the tent on
horseback. The ill-tempered brute he was riding was midnight black with white just above the hooves,
and it snorted at Siuan as the rider pulled up short, wearing a neat uniform and close-cropped brown hair.
Did he have to bring that creature with him?
"Aes Sedai?" the man asked, bowing to her from horseback. "You have a message for Lord Bryne?"
"Yes," Siuan said. "And you'll see it delivered with all haste. You understand me? All of our lives could
depend on it."
The soldier nodded sharply.
A MESSAGE IN HASTE
289
"Tell Lord Bryne . . ." Siuan began. "Tell him to watch his flanks. Our enemy has been taught the method
we used to get here."
"It shall be done."
"Repeat it back to me," Siuan said.
"Of course, Aes Sedai," the slender man said, bowing again. "Just so you know, I have been a messenger
in the general s command for over a decade. My memory—"
"Stop," Siuan interrupted. "I don't care how long you've been doing this. I don't care how good your
memory is. I don't care if, by some twist of fate, you've been asked to run this very same message a
thousand times before. You will repeat it back to me."
"Um, yes, Aes Sedai. I'm to tell the Lord General to watch his flanks. Our enemy has been taught the
method we used to get here."
"Good. Go."
The man nodded.
"Now!"
He reared that awful horse and galloped out of the camp, cloak flapping behind him.
"What was that about?" Sheriam asked, glancing away from the proceedings inside the Hall.
"Making certain we don't wake up with Elaida's army surrounding us," Siuan said. "I'll bet I'm the only
one who thought to warn our general that the enemy may have just undone our biggest tactical advantage.
So much for a siege."
Sheriam frowned, as if she hadn't considered that. She wouldn't be alone. Oh, some would think of Bryne,
and would be planning to send word to the general eventually. But for many, the catastrophe here wasn't
the fact that Elaida could now move her armies to flank them, or that now Bryne's siege was useless. The
catastrophe would be more personal for them: the knowledge they'd worked to keep secret had fallen into
the hands of others. Traveling was theirs, and now Elaida had it! Very Aes Sedai. Indignation first,
implication second.
Or perhaps Siuan was just feeling bitter. Someone inside the tent finally thought to call for the meeting to
be Sealed to the Flame, and so Siuan withdrew, stepping off the walkway and onto the hard-packed earth.
Novices scuttled this way and that, heads bowed to avoid her eyes, though they were quick to curtsy. /
haven't been doing a very good job of acting weak today, Siuan thought with a grimace.
The White Tower was crumbling. The Ajahs weakened one another
290
THE GATHERING STORM
with petty infighting. Even here, in Egwene's camp, more time was spent politicking than preparing for
the coming storm.
And Siuan was partially responsible for those failures.
Elaida and her Ajah certainly bore the lionfish's share of the blame. But would the Tower have split in the
first place if Siuan had fostered cooperation between the Ajahs? Elaida hadn't had that long to work.
Every rift that appeared in the Tower could likely be traced back to tiny cracks during Siuan's tenure as
Amyrlin. If she'd been more of a mediator among the factions of the White Tower, could she have
pounded strength into the bones of these women? Could she have kept them from turning on one another
like razorfish in a blood frenzy?
The Dragon Reborn was important. But he was only one figure in the weaving of these final days. It was
too easy to forget that, too easy to watch the dramatic figure of legend and forget everyone else.
She sighed, picking up her laundry and—out of habit—checking to make certain everything was there. As
she did so, a figure in white approached her from one of the branching pathways. "Siuan Sedai?"
Siuan looked up, frowning. The novice before her was one of the strangest in the camp. Nearly seventy
years old, Sharina had the weathered, creased face of a grandmother. She kept her silver hair up in a bun,
and while she walked without a stoop, there was a certain distinct weight to her. She had seen so much,
done so much, passed so many years. And unlike an Aes Sedai, Sharina had lived all of those years.
Working, raising a family, even burying children.
She was strong in the power. Remarkably so; she would wear the shawl for certain, and as soon as she
did, she'd be far above Siuan. For now, though, Sharina curtsied deeply. She gave an almost perfect show
of deference. Of all of the novices, she was known to complain the least, make the least trouble, and study
the most assiduously. As a novice, she understood things that most Aes Sedai had never learned—or had
forgotten the moment they took the shawl. How to be humble when necessary, how to take a punishment,
how to know when you needed to learn rather than pretend you already knew. If only we had a few score
more of her, Siuan thought, and a few score less Elaidas and Romandas.
"Yes, child?" Siuan asked. "What is it?"
"I saw you picking up that wash, Siuan Sedai," Sharina said. "And I thought that perhaps I should carry it
for you."
Siuan hesitated. "I wouldn't want you to tire yourself."
Sharina raised an eyebrow in a very un-novice-like expression. "These
A MESSAGE IN HASTE
291
old arms carried loads twice that heavy back and forth from the river just last year, Siuan Sedai, juggling
three grandchildren all the way. I think I'll be all right." There was something in her eyes, a hint that her
offer was not all it seemed to be. This one was adept at more than just Healing weaves, it appeared.
Curious, Siuan let the aged woman take the basket. They began to walk down the pathway toward the
novices' tents.
"It's curious," Sharina said, "that such a large disturbance could be caused by such a seemingly simple
revelation, wouldn't you say, Siuan Sedai?"
"Elaida's discovery of Traveling is an important revelation."
"And yet nowhere near as important as the ones rumored to have come during the meeting a few months
back, when that man who can channel visited. Odd that this should create such a scene."
Siuan shook her head. "The thinking of crowds is often odd at first consideration, Sharina. Everyone is
still talking about that Asha'man visit, and they're thirsty for more. So they react with excitement at the
chance to hear something else. In that way, the great revelations can come in secret, but then cause lesser
ones to be received in an explosion of anxiety."
"One could put that observation to good use, I should think." Sharina nodded to a group of novices as
they passed. "If one wanted to cause worry, that is."
"What are you saying?" Siuan asked, eyes narrowing.
"Ashmanaille reported first to Lelaine Sedai," Sharina said softly. "I've heard that Lelaine was the one
who let the news slip. She spoke it out loud in the hearing of a family of novices while calling for the Hall
to meet. She also deflected several early calls for the meeting to be Sealed to the Flame."
"Ah," Siuan said. "So that's why!"
"I relate only hearsay, of course," Sharina explained, pausing in the shade of a scraggly blackwood tree.
"It is probably just foolishness. Why, an Aes Sedai of Lelaine's stature would know that if she let
information slip in the hearing of novices, it would soon pass to all willing ears."
"And in the Tower, every ear is willing."
"Exactly, Siuan Sedai," Sharina said, smiling.
Lelaine had wanted to create a menagerie of a meeting—she'd wanted novices listening in, and every
sister in the camp joining in the discussion. Why? And why was Sharina confiding her very
un-novice-like opinions?
292
THE GATHERING STORM
The answer was obvious. The more threatened the women in the camp felt—the more danger they saw
from Elaida—the easier it would be for a firm hand to seize control. Though the sisters were indignant
now over the mere loss of a closely guarded secret, they would soon realize the danger that Siuan had
already seen. Soon there would be fear. Worry. Anxiety. The siege would never work, not now that the
Aes Sedai inside it could Travel wherever and whenever they wished. Bryne's army at the bridges had
become useless.
Unless Siuan missed her guess, Lelaine would be making certain that everyone else noticed the
implications, too.
"She wants us scared," Siuan said. "She wants a crisis." It was clever. Siuan should have seen this
coming. The fact that she hadn't—and the fact that she'd gotten no wind of Lelaine's plans—also
whispered an important fact. The woman might not trust Siuan as deeply as she seemed to. Blast!
She focused on Sharina. The gray-haired woman stood patiently, waiting as Siuan worked through what
she'd revealed.
"Why did you tell me this?" Siuan asked. "For all you know, I'm Lelaine's lackey."
Sharina raised her eyebrows. "Please, Siuan Sedai. These eyes aren't blind, and they see a woman
working very hard to keep the Amyrlin's enemies occupied."
"Fine," Siuan said. "But you are still exposing yourself for very little reward."
"Little reward?" Sharina asked. "Excuse me, Siuan Sedai, but what do you suppose my fate will be if the
Amyrlin doesn't return? No matter what she says now, we can sense Lelaine Sedai's true opinions."
Siuan hesitated. Though Lelaine now played the part of Egwene's pious advocate, not too long ago she
had been as displeased as everyone else over the too-old novices. Few liked it when traditions changed.
Now that the new novices had been entered into the novice book, it would be very difficult to put them
out of the Tower. But that didn't mean the Aes Sedai would continue to let older women in. Beyond that,
there was a good chance that Lelaine—or whoever ended up with the Amyrlin Seat—would find a way to
delay or disrupt the progression of the women who had been accepted against tradition. That would
certainly include Sharina.
"I will let the Amyrlin know of your actions here," Siuan said. "You will be rewarded."
A MESSAGE IN HASTE
293
"My reward will be Egwene Sedai's return, Siuan Sedai. Pray it be swift. She entangled our fate with her
own the moment she took us in. After what I've seen, and what I've felt, I have no intention of stopping
my training." The woman hefted the basket. "I assume you wish these washed and returned to you?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"I am a novice, Siuan Sedai. It is my duty and my pleasure." The elderly woman bowed in respect and
continued on down the path, walking with a step younger than her years.
Siuan watched her go, then stopped another novice. Another messenger to Bryne. Just in case. Hurry up,
girl, Siuan thought to Egwene, glancing toward the spire of the White Tower. Sharina isn't the only one
whose fate is entangled with yours. You've got us all wound up in that net of yours.
CHAPTER 19
Gambits
Chaos. The entire world was chaos. Tuon stood on the balcony of her audience hall in the palace of Ebou
Dar, hands clasped behind her back. In the palace grounds— flagstones washed white, like so many
surfaces in the city—a group of Altaran armsmen in gold and black practiced formations beneath the
watchful eyes of a pair of her own officers. Beyond them, the city proper rose, white domes banded with
colors spreading alongside tall, white spires.
Order. Here in Ebou Dar, there was order, even in the fields of tents and wagons outside the city.
Seanchan soldiers patrolled and kept the peace; there were plans to clean out the Rahad. Just because one
was poor was not a reason—or an excuse—to live without law.
But this city was just a tiny, tiny pocket of order in a world of tempest. Seanchan itself was broken by
civil war, now that the empress had died. The Corenne had come, but recapturing these lands of Artur
Hawkwing progressed slowly, stalled by the Dragon Reborn in the east and Domani armies in the north.
She still waited to hear news of Lieutenant-General Turan, but the signs were not good. Galgan
maintained that they might be surprised at the outcome, but Tuon had seen a black dove the hour she was
informed of Turan's predicament. The omen had been clear. He would not return alive.
294
GAMBITS
295
Chaos. She glanced to the side, where faithful Karede stood in his thick armor, colored blood-red and a
deep green, nearly black. He was a tall man, square face nearly as solid as the armor he wore. He had
fully two dozen Deathwatch Guards with him this day—the day after Tuon's return to Ebou Dar—along
with six Ogier Gardeners, all standing along the walls. They lined the sides of the high-ceilinged,
white-pillared room. Karede sensed the chaos, and did not intend to let her be taken again. Chaos was the
most deadly when you made assumptions about what it could and couldn't infect. Here in Ebou Dar, it
manifested in the form of a faction intent on taking Tuon's own life.
She had been dodging assassinations since she could walk, and she had survived them all. She anticipated
them. In a way, she thrived because of them. How were you to know that you were powerful unless
assassins were sent to kill you?
Suroth's betrayal, however . . . Chaos, indeed, when the leader of the Forerunners herself turned traitor.
Bringing the world back into order was going to be very, very difficult. Perhaps impossible.
Tuon straightened her back. She had not thought to become Empress for many years yet. But she would
do her duty.
She turned away from the balcony and walked back into the audience chamber to face the crowd awaiting
her. Like the others of the Blood, she wore ashes on her cheeks to mourn the loss of the Empress. Tuon
had little affection for her mother, but affection was not needed for an empress. She provided order and
stability. Tuon had only begun to understand the importance of these things as the weight had settled on
her shoulders.
The chamber was wide and rectangular, lit with candelabras between the pillars and the radiant glow of
sunlight through the wide balcony behind. Tuon had ordered the room's rugs removed, preferring the
bright white tiles. The ceiling bore a painted mural of fishers at sea, with gulls in the clear air, and the
walls were a soft blue. A group of ten da'covale knelt before the candelabras to Tuon's right. They wore
filmy costumes, waiting for a command. Suroth was not among them. The Deathwatch Guard saw to her,
at least until her hair grew out.
As soon as Tuon entered the room, all of the commoners bowed on knees with foreheads to the ground.
Those of the Blood knelt, bowing their heads.
Across from the da'covale, on the other side of the hall, Lanelle and Melitene knelt in dresses emblazoned
with silver lightning bolts in red panels on their skirts. Their leashed damane knelt facedown. Tuon's
296
THE GATHERING STORM
kidnapping had been unbearable to several of the damane; they had taken to inconsolable weeping during
her absence.
Her audience chair was relatively simple. A wooden seat with black velvet on the arms and back. She sat
down, wearing a pleated gown of the deepest sea blue, a white cape fluttering behind her. As soon as she
did, the people in the room rose from their positions of adulation—all save the da'covak, who remained
kneeling. Selucia stood and stepped up beside the chair, her golden hair in a braid down her right side, the
left side of her head shaven. She did not wear the ashes, since she was not of the Blood, but the white
band on her arm indicated that she—like the entire Empire—mourned the loss of the Empress.
Yuril, Tuon's secretary and secretly her Hand, stepped up to the other side of the chair. The Deathwatch
Guards moved in subtly around her, dark armor glittering faintly in the sunlight. They had been
particularly protective of her lately. She didn't blame them, recent events considered.
Here I am, Tuon thought, surrounded by my might, damane on one side and Deathwatch Guard on the other. And
yet I feel no safer than I did with Matrim. How odd, that she should have felt safe with him.
Directly in front of her, lit by indirect sunlight from the open balcony behind, was a collection of the
Blood, Captain-General Galgan highest of them. He wore armor this day, the breastplate painted a deep
blue, nearly dark enough to be black. His powdery white hair ran in a crest with the sides of his head
shaven, and was plaited to his shoulders, for he was of the High Blood. With him were two members of
the low Blood— Banner-General Najirah and Banner-General Yamada—and several commoner officers.
They waited patiently, carefully not meeting Tuon's eyes.
A gathering of other members of the Blood stood several steps behind, to witness her acts. Wiry Faverde
Nothish and long-faced Amenar Shumada led them. They were both important—important enough to be
dangerous. Suroth wouldn't be the only one who saw opportunity in these times. If Tuon were to fall,
practically anyone could become Empress. Or Emperor.
The war in Seanchan would not end quickly; but when it did, the victor would undoubtedly raise him- or
herself to the Crystal Throne as well. And then there would be two leaders of the Seanchan Empire,
divided by an ocean, united in desire to conquer one another. Neither could allow the other to live.
Order, Tuon thought, tapping the black wood of her armrest with a
GAMBITS
297
blue-lacquered fingernail. Order must emanate from me. I will bring the calm airs to those beset by storms.
"Selucia is my Truthspeaker," she announced to the room. "Let it be published among the Blood."
The statement was expected. Selucia bowed her head in acceptance, though she had no desire for any
appointment other than to serve and protect Tuon. She would not welcome this position. But she was also
honest and straightforward; she would make an excellent Truthspeaker.
At least this time, Tuon could be certain that her Truthspeaker wasn't one of the Forsaken.
Did she believe Falendre's story, then? It stretched plausibility; it sounded like one of Matrim's fanciful
tales of imaginary creatures that lurked in the dark. And yet, the other sul'dam and damane had
corroborated Falendre's tale.
Some facts, at least, seemed straightforward. Anath had been working with Suroth. Suroth—after some
persuasion—had admitted that she had met with one of the Forsaken. Or, at least, she thought she had.
She hadn't known that the Forsaken was the same as Anath, but she seemed to find the revelation
believable.
Whether or not she really was Forsaken, Anath had met with the Dragon Reborn, imitating Tuon. And
had then tried to kill him. Order, Tuon thought, keeping her face still. / represent order.
Tuon gestured rapidly to Selucia, who was still Tuon's Voice—and her shadow—even with the added
responsibility of Truthspeaker. When ordering those far beneath herself, Tuon would first pass the words
to Selucia, who would speak them.
"You are required to send him in," Selucia said to a da'covale beside the throne. He bowed himself to the
ground, touching head to the floor, then hurried to the other end of the large room and opened the door.
Beslan, King of Altara and High Seat of House Mitsobar, was a slender youth with black eyes and hair.
He had the olive skin common to the Altaran people, but he had taken to wearing clothing like that
favored by the Blood. Loose trousers of yellow and a high-collared coat that came down only to the
middle of his chest, a yellow shirt underneath. The Blood had left a clear passage down the middle of the
room, and Beslan walked through it, eyes lowered. Upon reaching the supplication space before the
throne, he went down on his knees, then bowed low. The perfect image of a loyal subject, except for the
thin golden crown on his head.
298
THE GATHERING STORM
Tuon gestured to Selucia.
"You are bidden to rise," Selucia said.
Beslan rose, though he kept his gaze averted. He was a fine actor.
"The Daughter of the Nine Moons expresses her condolences to you for your loss," Selucia said to him.
"I give the same to her for her loss," he said. "My grief is but a candle to the great fire felt by the
Seanchan people."
He was too servile. He was a king; he was not required to bow himself so far. He was the equal of many
of the Blood.
She could almost have believed he was just being submissive before the woman who would soon become
Empress. But she knew too much of his temperament, through both spies and hearsay.
"The Daughter of the Nine Moons wishes to know the reason you have ceased holding court," Selucia
said, watching Tuon's hands move. "She finds it distressing that your people cannot have audience with
their king. Your mother's death was as tragic as it was shocking, but your kingdom needs you."
Beslan bowed. "Please have her know that I did not think it appropriate to elevate myself above her. I am
uncertain how to act. I meant no insult."
"Are you certain that is the true reason?" Selucia Voiced. "It is not, perhaps, because you are planning a
rebellion against us, and do not have time for your other duties?"
Beslan looked up sharply, eyes wide. "Your Majesty, I—"
"You need not speak any further lies, child of Tylin," Tuon said directly to him, causing gasps of surprise
from the assembled Blood. "I know of the things you have said to General Habiger and your friend, Lord
Malalin. I know of your quiet meetings in the basement of The Three Stars. I know of it all, King Beslan."
The room fell silent, Beslan bowed his head for a moment. Then, surprisingly, he rose to his feet and
stared her directly in the eyes. She wouldn't have thought the soft-spoken youth had it in him. "I will not
allow my people to—"
"I would still my tongue if I were you," Tuon interrupted. "You stand on sand as it is."
Beslan hesitated. She could see the question in his eyes. Wasn't she going to execute him? /// intended to
kill you, she thought, you would be dead already, and you would never have seen the knife.
"Seanchan is in upheaval," Tuon said, regarding him. He appeared shocked at the words. "Oh, did you
think I would ignore it, Beslan? I am
GAMBITS
299
not content to stare at the stars while my empire collapses around me. The truth must be acknowledged.
My mother is dead. There is no empress.
"However, the forces of the Corenne are more than sufficient to maintain our positions here on this side of
the ocean, Altara included." She leaned forward, trying to project a sense of control, offirmness. Her
mother had been able to do so at all times. Tuon did not have her mother's height, but she would need that
aura. Others had to feel safer, more secure, simply by entering her presence.
"In times such as these," Tuon continued, "threats of rebellion cannot be tolerated. Many will see
opportunity in the Empire's weakness, and their divisive squabbling—if left unchecked—would prove the
end of us all. Therefore, I must be firm. Very firm. With those who defy me."
"Then why," Beslan said, "am I still alive?"
"You started planning your rebellion before events in the Empire were made known."
He frowned, dumbfounded.
"You began your rebellion when Suroth led here," Tuon said, "and when your mother was still queen.
Much has changed since then, Beslan. Very much. In times like these, there is potential for great
accomplishment."
"You must know I have no thirst for power," Beslan said. "The freedom of my people is all I desire."
"I do know it," Tuon said, clasping her hands before her, lacquered nails curling, elbows on the armrests
of her chair. "And that is the other reason you are still alive. You rebel not out of lust for station, but out
of sheer ignorance. You are misguided, and that means you can change, should you receive the proper
knowledge."
He looked at her, confused. Lower your eyes, fool. Don't make me have you strapped for insolence! As if he had
heard her thoughts, he averted his eyes, then lowered them. Yes, she had judged correctly regarding this
one.
How precarious her position was! True, she had armies—but so many of them had been thrown away by
Suroth's aggression.
All kingdoms on this side of the ocean would need to bow before the Crystal Throne, eventually. Each
marath'damane would be leashed, each king or queen would swear the oaths. But Suroth had pushed too
hard, particularly in the fiasco with Turan. A hundred thousand men, lost in one battle. Madness.
Tuon needed Altara. She needed Ebou Dar. Beslan was well loved by the people. Putting his head on a
pike after the mysterious death of his
300
THE GATHERING STORM
mother. . . . Well, Tuon would have stability in Ebou Dar, but she would rather not have to leave
battlefronts unmanned to accomplish it.
"Your mother's death is a loss," Tuon said. "She was a good woman. A good queen."
Beslan's lips tightened.
"You may speak," Tuon said.
"Her death ... is unexplained," he said. The implication was obvious.
"I do not know if Suroth caused her to be killed," Tuon said, softening her voice. "She claims that she did
not. But the matter is being investigated. If it turns out that Suroth was behind the death, you and Altara
will have an apology from the throne itself."
Another gasp from the Blood. She silenced them with a glance, then turned back to Beslan. "Your
mothers loss is a great one. You must know that she was loyal to her oaths."
"Yes," he said, voice bitter. "And she gave up the throne."
"No," Tuon said curtly. "The throne belongs to you. This is the ignorance of which I spoke. You must
lead your people. They must have a king. I have neither time nor desire to do your duty for you.
"You assume that the Seanchan dominance of your homeland will mean your people lack freedom. That
is false. They will be more free, more protected, and more powerful when they accept our rule.
"I sit above you. But is this so undesirable? With the might of the empire, you will be able to hold your
borders and patrol your lands outside of Ebou Dar. You speak of your people? Well, I have ordered
something prepared for you." She nodded to the side, where a willowy-limbed da'covale stepped forward
with a leather satchel.
"Inside," Tuon said, "you will find numbers gathered by my scouts and guard forces. You can see directly
the reports of crimes during our occupation here. You will have reports and manifests, comparing how the
people were before the Return and after it.
"I believe you know what you will find. The Empire is a resource to you, Beslan. A powerful, powerful
ally. I will not insult you by offering you thrones you do not want. I will entice you by promising
stability, food, and protection for your people. All for the simple price of your loyalty."
He hesitantly accepted the satchel.
"I offer you a choice, Beslan," Tuon said. "You may choose execution, if you wish. I will not make you
da'covale. I will let you die with honor, and it will be published that you died because you rejected the
oaths and
GAMBITS
301
chose not to accept the Seanchan. If you wish it, I will allow it. Your people will know that you died in
defiance.
"Or, you may choose to serve them better. You may choose to live. If you do so, you will be raised to the
High Blood. You will step forward and reign as your people need you to do. I promise you that I will not
direct the affairs of your people. I will demand resources and men for my armies, as is proper, and your
word cannot countermand my own. Aside from that, your power in Altara will be absolute. No Blood will
have the right to command, harm, or imprison your people without your permission.
"I will accept and review a list of noble families you feel should be raised to the low Blood, and I will
raise no fewer than twenty of them. Altara will become the permanent seat of the Empress on this side of
the ocean. As such, it will be the most powerful kingdom here. You may choose."
She leaned forward, unlacing her fingers. "But understand this. If you decide to join with us, you will give
me your heart, and not just your words. I will not allow you to ignore your oaths. I have given you this
chance because I believe you can be a strong ally, and I think that you were misguided, perhaps by
Suroth's twisted webs.
"You have one day to make your decision. Think well. Your mother thought this to be the best course,
and she was a wise woman. The Empire means stability. A rebellion would mean only suffering,
starvation and obscurity. These are not times to be alone, Beslan."
She sat back as Beslan regarded the satchel in his hands. He bowed in supplication to withdraw, though
the motion was jerky, as if he were distracted.
"You may go," she said to him.
He rose, but did not turn to leave. The room fell still as he stared down at his hands and the satchel. She
could read his struggle in his expression. A da'covale approached to hasten him on his way, as he had
been dismissed, but Tuon raised her hand, stilling the servant.
She leaned forward, several members of the Blood shuffling their feet as they waited. Beslan just stared at
that satchel. Finally, he looked up, eyes determined. And then, surprisingly, he got back down on his
knees.
"I, Beslan of House Mitsobar, pledge my fealty and service to the Daughter of the Nine Moons and
through her to the Seanchan Empire, now and for all time, save that she chooses to release me of her own
will. My lands and throne are hers, and I yield them to her hand. So I do swear before the Light."
302
THE GATHERING STORM
Tuon let herself smile. Behind Beslan, Captain-General Galgan stepped forward, addressing the King.
"That is not the proper way to—"
Tuon silenced him with a gesture. "We demand that this people adopt our ways, General," she said. "It is
fitting that we accept some of theirs." Not too many of those ways, of course. But she could thank her
long conversations with Mistress Anan for allowing her to understand this. The Seanchan had, perhaps,
made a mistake with this people in making them swear Seanchan oaths of obedience. Matrim had sworn
those oaths, but ignored them handily when the time came—yet he had been certain to keep his word to
her, and his men had assured her he was a man of honor.
How strange that they would be willing to elevate one oath over another. These people were odd. But she
would have to understand them in order to rule them—and she would have to rule them to gather strength
for her return to Seanchan.
"Your oath is pleasing to me, King Beslan. I raise you to the High Blood and give you and your House
dominance over the kingdom of Al-tara, for now and all time, your will for the administration and
governance of it second only to that of the Imperial Throne itself. Rise."
He stood, legs looking shaky. "Are you certain you're not ta'veren, my Lady?" he asked. "Because I
certainly wasn't expecting to do that when I walked in here."
Ta'veren. These people and their foolish superstitions! "I am pleased with you," she said to him. "I knew
your mother for only a short time, but I did find her quite capable. I would not have enjoyed being forced
to execute her only remaining son."
He nodded in appreciation. To the side, Selucia covertly signed, That was well handled. Unconventional,
perhaps, but very delicately done.
Tuon felt a warm sense of pride. She turned to the white-haired General Galgan. "General. I realize you
have been waiting to speak with me, and your patience is to be commended. You may now speak your
thoughts. King Beslan, you may withdraw or remain. It is your right to attend any public conferences I
have in your kingdom, and you need no permission or invitation to attend."
Beslan nodded, bowing but retreating to the side of the room to watch.
"Thank you, Highest Daughter," Galgan said reverently, stepping forward. He waved to his so'jhin, who
stood in the hallway outside. They entered—first prostrating themselves before Tuon—then quickly set
up a table and several maps. One servant brought Galgan a bundle, which he
GAMBITS
303
carried, approaching Tuon. Karede was at her right shoulder in a moment, Selucia at her left, but Galgan
kept a respectful distance. He bowed and unrolled the item on the ground. It was a banner of red, bearing
a circle in the center, split by a sinuous line. One half of the circle was black, the other white.
"What is it?" Tuon asked, leaning forward.
"The banner of the Dragon Reborn," Galgan said. "He sent it with a messenger, asking yet again for a
meeting." He glanced up—not meeting her eyes, but showing a thoughtful, concerned face.
"This morning when I arose," Tuon said, "I saw a pattern like three towers in the sky and a hawk, high in
the air, passing between them."
The various members of the Blood in the room nodded appreciatively. Only Beslan seemed confused.
How did these people live, not knowing the omens? Had they no desire to understand the visions of fate
the Pattern was giving them? The hawk and three towers were an omen of difficult choices to come. They
indicated that boldness would be needed.
"What are your thoughts on the Dragon Reborn's request for a meeting?" Tuon asked Galgan.
"Perhaps it would be unwise to meet with this man, Highest Daughter. I am not certain of his claims to his
title. Beyond this question, does the Empire not have other concerns at this time?"
"You wonder why our forces have not retreated," Tuon said. "Why we have not struck out for Seanchan
to secure the throne."
He bowed his head. "I trust your wisdom, Highest Daughter."
"This is the Dragon Reborn," Tuon said. "And not just an impostor. I am convinced of it. He must bow
before the Crystal Throne before the Last Battle can begin. And so we must stay. It is not an accident that
the Return happened now. We are needed here. More than we are needed, unfortunately, in our
homeland."
Galgan nodded slowly. He agreed with her on not retreating to Seanchan; he had simply assumed it would
be what she wished. In declaring they would stay, she had earned his respect. Not that he wouldn't still
consider seizing the throne for himself. A man could not hold his position without a great deal of
ambition.
However, he was known to be a prudent man as well as an ambitious one. He would not strike unless he
was convinced it was for the best. He would have to believe that he had a strong potential for success and
that removing Tuon would be better for the Empire. That was the difference between an ambitious fool
and an ambitious wise man. The latter
304
THE GATHERING STORM
understood that killing someone was only the beginning. Taking Tuon's life and assuming the throne
himself would gain him nothing if it alienated the rest of the Blood.
He walked to his table with maps. "If you wish to continue to prosecute the war, Highest Daughter, permit
me to explain the condition of your army. One of our most ambitious plans is being organized by
Lieutenant-General Yulan."
Galgan gestured to the assembled officers and a short, dark-skinned man of the low Blood stepped
forward. He wore a black wig to hide his baldness, and he approached and knelt before Tuon, bowing.
"You are commanded to rise and speak, General," Selucia Voiced.
"The Highest Daughter should know my thanks," Yulan said, rising. At the map table, he gestured for
several aides to hold up a map so that Tuon could see. "Aside from setbacks in Arad Doman, the process
of reclaiming these lands has proceeded as expected. More slowly than we would wish, but not without
great victories. The people of these kingdoms do not rally to the defense of their neighboring nations. We
have had great success seizing them one at a time. Only two issues cause us worry. The first is this Rand
al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn, who has been pursuing an aggressive war of unification to the north and east.
The Highest Daughter's wisdom will be needed in teaching us to subdue him.
"The other concern has been the large number of marath'damane concentrated in the place known as Tar
Valon. I believe the Highest Daughter has heard of the great weapon they used to destroy a large patch of
land north of Ebou Dar."
Tuon nodded.
"The sul'dam have never seen its like," Yulan continued. "We assume it is a thing oi damane, which can
be taught to them, if the right maratb'damane are taken. This wondrous ability they have to transport
instantly from one place to another—if true—will prove a second technique of great tactical advantage
that we must capture."
Tuon nodded again, studying the map, which showed the place called Tar Valon. Selucia Voiced, "The
Highest Daughter is curious as to your plans. You will proceed."
"My thanks are expressed deeply," Yulan said, bowing. "As Captain of the Air, I have the honor of
commanding the raken and to'raken serving the Return. I believe that a strike at the very heart of our
enemy's lands would not only be possible, but highly advantageous. We have not yet had to
GAMBITS
305
fight many of these marattidamane in combat, but as we advance into lands controlled by the Dragon
Reborn, we will undoubtedly face them in great numbers.
"They assume that they are safe from us at this time. A strike now could have great impact on the future.
Each marath'damane we leash is not only a powerful tool gained by our forces, but one lost by the
enemy. Preliminary reports claim that there are hundreds upon hundreds of marath'damane congregated
in this place called the White Tower."
That many? Tuon thought. A force like that could turn the war entirely. True, those marath'damane who
had traveled with Matrim had said that they would not take part in wars. Indeed, marath'damane who had
once been Aes Sedai had—so far—proven useless as weapons. But could there be some way to twist their
supposed vows? Something Matrim had said in passing made her suspect they could. Her fingers flew.
"The Daughter of the Nine Moons wonders how a strike against them could be feasible," Selucia Voiced.
"The distance is great. Hundreds of leagues."
"We would use a force of mostly to'raken," General Yulan said. "With some raken for scouting. Our
captured maps show large grasslands with very few inhabitants, which could be used as resting points
along the way. We could strike across Murandy here," he pointed at a second map, which aides held up,
"and come at Tar Valon from the south. If it pleases the Highest Daughter, we could raid at night, while
the marath'damane are asleep. Our objective would be to capture as many of them as possible."
"It is wondered if this really could be accomplished," Selucia Voiced. Tuon was intrigued. "What
numbers would we be able to use for such a raid?"
"If we were fully committed?" Yulan asked. "I believe I could gather up between eighty and a hundred
to'raken for the assault."
Eighty to a hundred to'raken. So, perhaps around three hundred soldiers, with equipment, leaving room to
bring back captured marath'damane. Three hundred would be a considerable force for a raid like this, but
they would have to move quickly and lightly, so as to not be trapped.
"If it pleases the Highest Daughter," General Galgan said, stepping forward again. "I believe General
Yulan's plan has much merit. It is not without potential for great loss, but we will never have another such
opportunity. If brought to bear in our conflict, those marath'damane could disable us. And if we could
gain access to this weapon of theirs, or even
306
THE GATHERING STORM
their ability to travel great distances. . . . Well, I believe that the risk of every to'raken in our army is
worth the gains."
"If it pleases the Highest Daughter," General Yulan continued. "Our plan calls for the use twenty squads
of the Fist of Heaven—two hundred troops total—and fifty linked sul'dam. We think that, perhaps, a
small group of Bloodknives would be appropriate as well."
Bloodknives, the most elite members of the Fist of Heaven, itself an exclusive group. Yulan and Galgan
were dedicated to this action! One never committed Bloodknives unless one was very serious, for they did
not return from their missions. Their duty was to stay behind after the Fists withdrew and cause
damage—as much damage as possible—to the enemy. If they could place some of them in Tar Valon,
with orders to kill as many marattidamane as possible. . . .
"The Dragon Reborn will not react well to this raid," Tuon said to Galgan. "Is he not connected to these
marath'damanel"
"By some reports," Galgan said. "Others say he is opposed to them. Still others say they are his pawns.
Our poor intelligence in this area lowers my eyes, Highest Daughter. I have not been able to sort the lies
from the truths. Until we have better information, we must assume the worst, that this raid will anger him
greatly."
"And you still think it worthwhile?"
"Yes," Galgan said without hesitation. "If these marath'damane are connected to the Dragon Reborn, then
we have greater reason to strike now, before he can use them against us. Perhaps the raid will enrage
him—but it will also weaken him, which will place you in a better position for negotiating with him."
Tuon nodded thoughtfully. Undoubtedly, this was the difficult decision of the omen. But her choice
seemed very obvious. Not a difficult decision at all. All of the marath'damane in Tar Valon must be
collared, and this was an excellent way to weaken resistance to the Ever Victorious Army with a single,
powerful blow.
But the omen spoke of a difficult decision. She gestured to Selucia. "Are there any in the room who
disapprove of this plan?" the Voice asked. "Any who would offer objection to what General Yulan and
his men have advanced?"
The Blood in the room regarded one another. Beslan might have stirred, but he remained silent. The
Altarans had not made any objections to their marattidamane being collared; it seemed they had little
trust for
GAMBITS
307
those who could channel. They had not been as prudent as Amadicia in outlawing these Aes Sedai, but
neither were they welcoming. Beslan would nor object to a strike against the White Tower.
She sat back, waiting . . . For what? Perhaps this wasn't the decision the omen had referred to. She opened
her mouth to give the order to go forward with the raid, but at that moment the opening of the doors made
her pause.
The Deathwatch Guards who guarded the door stepped aside a moment later, admitting a so'jhin who
served in the hallway. The strong-armed man, Ma'combe, bowed himself low to the ground, the black
braid over his right shoulder dropping to the side and hitting the tiled floor. "May it please the Daughter
of the Nine Moons, Lieutenant-General Tylee Khir-gan would like an audience."
Galgan looked shocked.
"What is it?" Tuon asked him.
"I had not realized that she had returned, Highest Daughter," he said. "I suggest in humility that she be
given leave to speak. She is one of my finest officers."
"She may enter," Selucia Voiced.
A male da'covale in a white robe entered, preceding a woman in armor, her helm under her arm. Dark of
skin, with short black hair worn in tight curls against her scalp, she was tall and lean. Her hair was
sprinkled with white at the temples. The overlapping plates of her armor were striped with red, yellow
and blue lacquer, and creaked as she walked. She was only of the low Blood—recently raised by General
Galgan's order— but she had been informed of this via raken. She wore her hair barely shaved a finger's
width up the sides of her head.
Tylee's eyes were red with fatigue. Judging by the scent of sweat and the stink of horse she gave off, she
had come straight to Tuon upon arriving in the city. She was followed into the room by several younger
soldiers, also exhausted, one bearing a large brown sack. Upon reaching the supplication space—a red
square of cloth—all went down on their knees. The common soldiers proceeded to touch foreheads to the
floor, and Tylee jerked as if to follow, but stopped herself. She was not yet accustomed to being one of
the Blood.
"It is obvious that you are tired, warrior," Selucia Voiced. Tuon leaned forward. "It is presumed that you
have news of great import?"
Tylee rose to one knee, then gestured to the side. One of her soldiers
308
THE GATHERING STORM
rose to his knees and lifted up his brown sack. It was stained on the bottom with a dark, crusted liquid.
Blood.
"If it pleases the Highest Daughter," Tylee said, voice betraying exhaustion. She nodded to her man, and
he opened his sack, dumping things onto the floor. The heads of several animals. A boar, a wolf, and . . . a
hawk? Tuon felt a chill. That hawk's head was as large as a person's. Perhaps larger. But they were not . . .
right. The heads were horribly deformed.
She could swear that the hawk's head, which rolled so that she could see the face clearly, had human eyes.
And . . . the other heads had . . . human features as well. Tuon suppressed a shiver. What foul omen was
this?
"What is the meaning of this?" Galgan demanded.
"I presume that the Highest Daughter knows of my military venture against the Aiel," Tylee said, still on
one knee. Tylee had captured damane during that engagement, though Tuon didn't know much more than
that. General Galgan had been awaiting her return with some curiosity to receive the full story.
"In my venture," Tylee continued, "I was joined by men of various nationalities, none of whom had sworn
the oaths. I will give a full report on them when there is time." She hesitated, then glanced at the heads.
"These . . . creatures . . . attacked my company during our return ride, ten leagues from Ebou Dar. We
took heavy casualties. We brought several full bodies as well as these heads. They walked on two feet,
like men, but had much the appearance of animals." She hesitated again. "I believe them to be what some
on this side of the ocean speak of as Trollocs. I believe them to be coming here."
Chaos. The Blood began to argue about the implausibility of it. General Galgan immediately ordered his
officers to organize patrols and send runners to warn of a potential attack on the city. The sul'dam at the
side of the room hurried forward to inspect the heads while the Deathwatch Guards quietly surrounded
Tuon, to give an extra layer of defense, watching everyone—Blood, servants, and soldiers—with equal
care.
Tuon felt she should be shocked. But, oddly, she wasn't. So Matrim was not mistaken about this, she
signed covertly to Selucia. And she had assumed Trollocs to be nothing more than superstition. She
glanced at the heads again. Revolting.
Selucia seemed troubled. Are there other things he said that we discounted, I wonder?
Tuon hesitated. We shall have to ask him. I should very much like to have
GAMBITS
309
him back. She froze; she hadn't meant to admit so much. She found her own emotions curious, however.
She had felt safe with him, ridiculous though it seemed. And she wished he were with her now.
These heads were yet another proof that she knew very little of him. She reasserted control of the
chattering crowd. Selucia Voiced, "You will silence yourselves."
The room fell still, though the Blood and the sul'dam still looked very disturbed. Tylee still knelt, head
bowed, the soldier who had borne the heads kneeling beside her. Yes, she would have to be thoroughly
questioned.
"This news changes little," Selucia Voiced. "We were already aware that the Last Battle approaches. We
appreciate Lieutenant-General Tylee's revelations. She is to be commended. But this only makes it more
urgent that we subdue the Dragon Reborn."
There were several nods from those in the room, including General Galgan. Beslan did not seem so
quickly persuaded. He just looked troubled.
"If it pleases the Highest Daughter," Tylee said, bowing.
"You are allowed to speak."
"These last few weeks, I have seen many things that have given me thought," Tylee said. "Even before
my troops were attacked, I was worried. The wisdom and grace of the Highest Daughter undoubtedly let
her see further than one such as I, but I believe that our conquests so far in this land have been easy
compared to what might come. If I may be so bold ... I believe that the Dragon Reborn and those
associated with him may make better allies than enemies."
It was a bold statement. Tuon leaned forward, lacquered nails clicking on the armrests of her chair. Many
of the low Blood would be so in awe at meeting one of the Empress's household, much less the Highest
Daughter, that they would not dare speak. Yet this woman offered suggestions? In direct opposition to
Tuon's published will?
"A difficult decision is not always a decision where both sides are equally matched, Tuon," Selucia said
suddenly. "Perhaps, in this case, a difficult decision is one that is right, but requires an implication of fault
as well."
Tuon blinked in surprise. Yes, she realized. Selucia is my Truthspeaker now. It would take time to
accustom herself to the woman in that role. It had been years since Selucia had corrected or reproved her
in public.
And yet, meeting with the Dragon Reborn, in person? She did need to
310
THE GATHERING STORM
contact him, and had planned to. But would it not be bettet to go to him in strength, his armies defeated,
the White Tower torn down? She needed him brought to the Crystal Throne under very controlled
circumstances, with the understanding that he was to submit to her authority.
And yet . . . with Seanchan in rebellion . . . with her position here in Altara barely stabilized . . . Well,
perhaps some time to think—some time to take a few deep breaths and secure what she already
had—would be worth delaying her strike on the White Tower.
"General Galgan, send raken to our forces in Almoth Plain and eastern Altara," she said firmly. "Tell
them to hold our interests, but avoid confrontation with the Dragon Reborn. And reply to his request for a
meeting. The Daughter of the Nine Moons will meet with him."
General Galgan nodded, bowing.
Order must be brought to the world. If she had to do that by lowering her eyes slightly and meeting with
the Dragon Reborn, then so be it.
Oddly, she felt herself wishing—once again—that Matrim were still with her. She could have put his
knowledge of this Rand al'Thor to good use in preparing for the meeting. Stay well, you curious man, she
thought, glancing back at the balcony, northward. Do not dig yourself into trouble deeper than you can
climb to freedom. You are Prince of the Ravens now. Remember to act appropriately.
Wherever it is you are.
CHAPTER 20
On a Broken Road
Women," Mat declared as he rode Pips down the dusty, little-used road, "are like mules." He frowned.
"Wait. No. Goats. Women are like goats. Except every flaming one thinks she's a horse instead, and a
prize racing mare to boot. Do you understand me, Talmanes?"
"Pure poetry, Mat," Talmanes said, tamping the tabac down into his pipe.
Mat flicked his reins, Pips continuing to plod along. Tall three-needle pines lined the sides of the stone
roadway. They'd been lucky to find this ancient road, which must have been made before the Breaking. It
was mostly overgrown, the stones shattered in many places, large sections of the roadway just . . . well,
just gone.
Sapling pines had begun to sprout at the sides of the roadway and between rocks, miniature versions of
their towering fathers above. The path was wide, if very rough, which was good. Mat had seven thousand
men with him, all mounted, and they'd been riding hard in the little under a week they'd spent traveling
since sending Tuon back to Ebou Dar.
"Reasoning with a woman is impossible," Mat continued, eyes forward. "It's like . . . Well, reasoning with
a woman is like sitting down to a friendly game of dice. Only the woman refuses to acknowledge the
basic bloody rules of the game. A man, he'll cheat you—but he'll do it honestly.
312
THE GATHERING STORM
He'll use loaded dice, so that you think you're losing by chance. And if you aren't clever enough to spot
what he's doing, then maybe he deserves to take your coin. And that's that.
"A woman, though, she'll sit down to that same game and she'll smile, and act like she's going to play.
Only when it's her turn to throw, she'll toss a pair of her own dice that are blank on all six sides. Not a
single pip showing. She'll inspect her throw, then she'll look up at you and say, 'Clearly I just won.'
"Now, you'll scratch your head and look at the dice. Then you'll look up at her, then down at the dice
again. 'But there aren't any pips on these dice,' you'll say.
" 'Yes there are,' she'll say. 'And both dice rolled a one.'
" 'That's exactly the number you need to win,' you'll say.
" 'What a coincidence,' she'll reply, then begin to scoop up your coins. And you'll sit there, trying to wrap
your head bout what just happened. And you'll realize something. A pair of ones isn't the winning throw!
Not when you threw a six on your turn. That means she needed a pair of twos instead! Excitedly, you'll
explain what you've discovered. Only then, do you know what she'll do?"
"No idea, Mat," Talmanes replied, chewing on his pipe, a thin wisp of smoke curling out of the bowl.
"Then she'll reach over," Mat said, "and rub the blank faces of her dice. And then, with a perfectly straight
face, she'll say, 'I'm sorry. There was a spot of dirt on the dice. Clearly you can see that they actually
came up as twos!' And she'll believe it. She'll bloody believe it!"
"Incredible," Talmanes said.
"Only that's not the end of it!"
"I had presumed that it wouldn't be, Mat."
"She scoops up all of your coins," Mat said, gesturing with one hand, the other steadying his ashandarei
across his saddle. "And then every other woman in the room will come over and congratulate her on
throwing that pair of twos! The more you complain, the more of those bloody women will join the
argument. You'll be outnumbered in a moment, and each of those women will explain to you how those
dice clearly read twos, and how you really need to stop behaving like a child. Every single flaming one of
them will see the twos! Even the prudish woman who has hated your woman from birth—since your
woman's granny stole the other woman's granny's honeycake recipe when they were both maids— that
woman will side against you."
ON A BROKEN ROAD
313
"They are nefarious creatures indeed," Talmanes said, voice flat and even. Talmanes rarely smiled.
"By the time they're done," Mat continued, almost more to himself, "you'll be left with no coin, several
lists' worth of errands to run and what clothing to wear and a splitting headache. You'll sit there and stare
at the table and begin to wonder, just maybe, if those dice didn't read twos after all. If only to preserve
what's left of your sanity. That's what it's like to reason with a woman, I tell you."
"And you did so. At length,"
"You aren't making sport of me, are you?"
"Why, Mat!" the Cairhienin said. "You know I'd never do such a thing."
"Too bad," Mat muttered, glancing at him suspiciously. "I could use a laugh." He looked over his
shoulder. "Vanin! Where on the Dark One's blistered backside are we?"
The fat former horsethief looked up. He rode a short distance behind Mat, and he carried a map of the
area unrolled and folded across a board so he could read it in the saddle. He'd been poring over the bloody
thing the better half of the morning. Mat had asked him to get them through Murandy quietly, not get
them lost in the mountains for months!
"That's Blinder's Peak," Vanin said, gesturing with a pudgy finger toward a flat-topped mountain just
barely visible over the tips of the pines. "At least, I think it is. It might be Mount Sardlen."
The squat hill didn't look like much of a mountain; it barely had any snow atop it. Of course, few
"mountains" in this area were impressive, not compared to the Mountains of Mist, back near the Two
Rivers. Here, northeast of the Damona range, the landscape fell into a grouping of low foothills. It was
difficult terrain, but navigable, if one were determined. And Mat was determined. Determined not to be
pinned in by the Sean-chan again, determined not to be seen by any who didn't have to know he was
there. He'd paid the butcher too much so far. He wanted out of this hangman's noose of a country.
"Well," Mat said, reining Pips back to ride beside Vanin, "which of those mountains is it? Maybe we
should go ask Master Roidelle again."
The map belonged to the master mapmaker; it was only because of his presence that they'd been able to
find this roadway in the first place. But Vanin insisted on being the one to guide the troop—a mapmaker
wasn't the same thing as a scout. You didn't have a dusty cartographer ride out and lead the way for you,
Vanin insisted.
314
THE GATHERING STORM
In truth, Master Roidelle didn't have a lot of experience being a guide. He was a scholar, an academic. He
could explain a map for you perfectly, but he had as much trouble as Vanin making sense of where they
were, since this roadway was so disjointed and broken, the pines high enough to obscure landmarks, the
hilltops all nearly identical.
Of course, there was also the fact that Vanin seemed threatened by the presence of the mapmaker, as if he
were worried about being unseated from his position guiding Mat and the Band. Mat had never expected
such an emotion from the overweight horsethief. It might have been enough to make him amused if they
weren't lost so much of the flaming time.
Vanin scowled. "I think that has to be Mount Sardlen. Yes. It's got to be."
"Which means . . . ?"
"Which means we keep heading along the roadway," Vanin said. "The same thing I told you an hour ago.
We can't bloody march an army through a forest this thick, now can we? That means staying on the
stones."
"I'm just asking," Mat said, pulling down the brim of his hat against the sun. "A commander's got to ask
things like this."
"I should ride ahead," Vanin said, scowling again. He was fond of scowls. "If that is Mount Sardlen, there
should be a village of fair size an hour or two further along. I might be able to spot it from the next rise."
"Go, then," Mat said. They had advance scouts out, of course, but none of them were as good as Vanin.
Despite his size, the man could sneak close enough to an enemy fortification to count the whiskers in the
camp guards' beards and never be seen. He'd probably make off with their stew, too.
Vanin shook his head as he regarded the map again. "Actually," he muttered, "now that I think about it,
maybe that's Favlend Mountain. . . ." He set off at a trot before Mat could object.
Mat sighed, heeling Pips to catch up to Talmanes. The Cairhienin shook his head. He could be an intense
one, Talmanes. Early in their association, Mat had assumed him to be stern, unable to have fun. He was
learning better. Talmanes wasn't stern, he was just reserved. But at times, there seemed to be a twinkle to
the nobleman's eyes, as if he were laughing at the world, despite that set jaw and his unsmiling lips.
Today, he wore a red coat, trimmed with gold, and his forehead was shaved and powdered after Cairhien
in fashion. It looked bloody ridiculous, but who was Mat to judge? Talmanes might have terrible fashion
ON A BROKEN ROAD
315
sense, but he was a loyal officer and a good man. Besides, he had excellent taste in wine.
"Don't look so glum, Mat," Talmanes said, puffing on his gold-rimmed pipe. Where'd he gotten that,
anyway? Mat didn't remember him having it before. "Your men have full bellies, full pockets, and they
just won a great victory. Not much more than that a soldier can ask for."
"We buried a thousand men," Mat said. "That's no victory." The memories in his head—the ones that
weren't his—said he should be proud. The battle had gone well. But there were still those dead who had
depended on him.
"There are always losses," Talmanes said. "You can't let them eat you up, Mat. It happens."
"There aren't losses when you don't fight in the first place."
"Then why ride to battle so often?"
"I only fight when I can't avoid it!" Mat snapped. Blood and bloody ashes, he only fought when he had to.
When they trapped him! Why did that seem to happen every time he turned around?
"Whatever you say, Mat," Talmanes said, taking out his pipe and pointing it at Mat knowingly. "But
something's got you on edge. And it isn't the men we lost."
Flaming noblemen. Even the ones you could stand, like Talmanes, always thought they knew so much.
Of course, Mat was now a nobleman himself. Don't think about that, he told himself. Talmanes had spent
a few days calling Mat "Your Highness" until Mat had lost his temper and yelled at the man—Cairhienin
could be such sticklers for rank.
When Mat had first realized what his marriage to Tuon meant, he'd laughed, but it had been the laughter
of incredulous pain. And men called him lucky. Well why couldn't his luck have helped him avoid this
fate! Bloody Prince of the Ravens? What did that mean?
Well, right now he had to worry about his men. He glanced over his shoulder, looking along the ranks of
cavalrymen, with crossbowmen riding behind. There were thousands of both, though Mat had ordered
their banners stowed. They weren't likely to pass many travelers on this backwater path, but if anyone did
set them, he didn't want their tongues waggingWould the Seanchan chase him? He and Tuon both knew they were
on opposing sides now, and she'd seen what his army could do.
316
THE GATHERING STORM
Did she love him? He was married to her, but Seanchan didn't think like regular people. She'd stayed in
his possession, enduring captivity, never running. But he had little doubt that she'd move against him if
she thought it best for her empire.
Yes, she'd send men after him, though potential pursuit didn't trouble him half as much as the worry that
she might not make it back to Ebou Dar safely. Someone had offered a very large pile of coin for Tuon's
head. That Seanchan traitor, the leader of the army Mat had destroyed. Had he been working alone? Were
there others? What had Mat released Tuon into?
The questions haunted him. "Should I have let her go, do you think?" Mat found himself asking.
Talmanes shrugged. "You gave your word, Mat, and I think that rather large Seanchan fellow with the
determined eyes and the black armor wouldn't have reacted well if you'd tried to keep her."
"She could still be in danger," Mat said, almost to himself, still looking backward. "I shouldn't have let
her out of my sight. Fool woman."
"Mat," Talmanes said, pointing at him with the pipe again. "I'm surprised at you. Why, you're starting to
sound downright husbandly."
That gave Mat a start. He twisted around in Pips' saddle. "What was that? What does that mean?"
"Nothing, Mat," Talmanes said hurriedly. "Just that, the way you're mooning after her, I—"
"I'm not mooning," Mat snapped, pulling the lip of his hat down, then adjusting his scarf. His medallion
was a comfortable weight around his neck. "I'm just worried. That's all. She knows a lot about the Band,
and she could give away our strengths."
Talmanes shrugged, puffing his pipe. They rode for a time in silence. The pine needles soughed in the
wind, and Mat occasionally heard women's laughter from behind, where the Aes Sedai rode in a little
cluster. For all the fact that they didn't like one another, they usually got along just fine when others could
see them. But, as he'd said to Talmanes, women were only enemies with one another as long as there
wasn't a man around to gang up on.
The sun was marked by a blazing patch of clouds; Mat hadn't seen pure sunlight in days. He hadn't seen
Tuon in as long either. The two events seemed paired in his head. Was there a connection?
Bloody fool, he thought to himself. Next you'll start thinking like her.
ON A BROKEN ROAD
317
reading portents into every little thing, looking for symbols and meaning every time a rabbit runs across your path
or a horse lets wind.
That kind of fortunetelling was all nonsense. Though he had to admit, he now cringed every time he heard
an owl hoot twice.
"Have you ever loved a woman, Talmanes?" Mat found himself asking.
"Several," the short man replied, riding with pipe smoke curling behind him.
"Ever consider marrying one of them?"
"No, thank the Light," Talmanes said. Then, apparently, he thought better of what he'd just said. "I mean,
it wasn't right for me at the time, Mat. But I'm certain it will work out fine for you."
Mat scowled. If Tuon was going to bloody finally decide to go through with the marriage, couldn't she
have picked a time when others couldn't hear?
But no. She'd gone and spoken in front of everyone, including the Aes Sedai. That meant Mat had been
doomed. Aes Sedai were great at keeping secrets unless those secrets could in any way embarrass or
inconvenience Matrim Cauthon. Then you could be certain the news would spread through the entire
camp in a day's time, and likely be known three villages down the road as well. His own bloody
mother—leagues and leagues away—had probably heard the news by now.
"I'm not giving up gambling," Mat muttered. "Or drinking."
"So I believe you've told me," Talmanes said. "Three or four times so far. I half believe that if I were to
peek into your tent at night, I'd find you mumbling it in your sleep. 'I'm going to keep bloody gambling!
Bloody, bloody gambling and drinking! Where's my bloody drink? Anyone want to gamble for it?' " He
said it with a perfectly straight face, but once again, there was that hint of a smile in his eyes, if you knew
just where to look.
"I just want to make sure everyone knows," Mat said. "I don't want anyone to start thinking I'm getting
soft just because of... you know."
Talmanes shot him a consoling look. "You won't go soft just because you got married, Mat. Why, some of
the Great Captains themselves are married, I believe. Davram Bashere is for certain, and Rodel Ituralde.
No, you won't go soft because you're married."
Mat nodded sharply. Good that was settled.
"You might go boring though," Talmanes noted.
"All right, that's it," Mat declared. "Next village we find, we're going to go dicing at the tavern. You and
me."
318
THE GATHERING STORM
Talmanes grimaced. "With the kind of third-rate wine these little mountain villages have? Please, Mat.
Next you'll be wanting me to drink ale."
"No arguing." Mat glanced over his shoulder as he heard familiar voices. Olver—ears sticking out to the
sides, diminutive face as ugly as any Mat had seen—sat astride Wind, chatting with Noal, who rode
beside him on a bony gelding. The gnarled old man was nodding appreciatively to what Olver was saying.
The little boy looked astonishingly solemn, and was undoubtedly explaining yet another of his theories on
how to best sneak into the Tower of Ghenjei.
"Ho, now," Talmanes said. "There's Vanin."
Mat turned to spot a rider approaching along the rocky path ahead. Vanin always looked so ridiculous,
perched like a melon atop the back of his horse, his feet sticking out to the sides. But the man could ride,
there was no doubting that.
"It is Mount Sardlen," Vanin proclaimed as he rode up to them, wiping his sweaty, balding brow. "The
village is just ahead; it's called Hin-derstap on the map. These are bloody good maps," he added
grudgingly.
Mat exhaled in relief. He'd begun to think that they might end up wandering these mountains until the
Last Battle came and went. "Great," he began, "we can—"
"A village?" a curt female voice demanded.
Mat turned with a sigh as three riders forced their way up to the front of the column. Talmanes reluctantly
raised a hand to the soldiers behind, halting the march as the Aes Sedai descended on poor Vanin. The
rotund man squatted down in his saddle, looking for all the world as though he'd rather have been
discovered stealing horses—and therefore on his way to execution—than have to sit there and be
interrogated by Aes Sedai.
Joline led the pack. Once, Mat might have described her as a pretty girl, with her slender figure and large,
inviting brown eyes. But that ageless Aes Sedai face was an instant warning for him now. No, he wouldn't
dare think of the Green as pretty now. Begin letting yourself think of Aes Sedai as pretty, and in two
clicks of the tongue you'd find yourself wrapped around her finger and hopping at her command. Why,
Joline had already hinted that she'd like to have Mat as a Warder!
Was she still sore at him because he'd paddled her? She couldn't hurt him with the Power, of
course—even without his medallion, since Aes Sedai were sworn not to use the Power to kill except in
very specific inON A BROKEN ROAD
319
stances. But he was no fool. He'd noticed that those oaths of theirs didn't say anything about using knives.
The two with Joline were Edesina, of the Yellow Ajah, and Teslyn, of the Red. Edesina was pleasant
enough to look at, save for that ageless face, but Teslyn was about as appetizing as a stick. Sharp of face,
the II-lianer woman was bony and scrappy, like an aged cat left too long on its own. But she seemed to
have a good head on her shoulders, from what Mat had seen, and he'd found her treating him with some
measure of respect sometimes. Respect from a Red. Imagine that.
Still, from the way each of those Aes Sedai looked at Mat in turn as they reached the front of the line,
you'd never know that they owed him their lives. That was the way of it with women. Save her life, and
she'd inevitably claim that she'd been about to escape on her own, and therefore owed you nothing. Half
the time, she'd berate you for messing up her supposed plans.
Why did he bother? One of these days, burn him, he was going to get smart and leave the next lot crying
in their chains.
"What was this?" Joline demanded of Vanin. "You've finally determined where we are?"
"Bloody well have," Vanin said, then unabashedly scratched himself. Good man, Vanin. Mat smiled.
Treated all people the same, Vanin did. Aes Sedai and all.
Joline stared Vanin straight in the eyes, looming like a gargoyle atop some lord's mansion stonework.
Vanin actually cringed, then wilted, then finally looked downward, abashed. "I mean, I have indeed,
Joline Sedai."
Mat felt his smile fade. Burn it all, Vanin!
"Excellent," Joline said. "And there is a village ahead, I heard? Finally, perhaps, we'll find a decent inn. I
could use something other than the 'fare' these ruffians of Cauthon's call food."
"Here now," Mat said, "that isn't—"
"How far do we be from Caemlyn, Master Cauthon?" Teslyn cut in. She did her best to ignore Joline. The
two of them seemed at one another's throats lately—in the most cool-faced and outwardly amiable of
ways, of course. Aes Sedai didn't squabble. He'd gotten a talking to once for calling their "discussions"
"squabbles." Never mind that Mat had sisters, and knew what a good squabble sounded like.
"What did you say earlier, Vanin?" Mat asked, looking at him. "That we're about two hundred leagues
from Caemlyn?"
320
THE GATHERING STORM
Vanin nodded. The plan was to head for Caemlyn first, as he needed to meet up with Estean and Daerid
and secure needed information and supplies. After that, he could make good on his promise to Thorn. The
Tower of Ghenjei would have to wait a few more weeks.
"Two hundred leagues," Teslyn said. "How long until we arrive, then?"
"Well, I guess that depends," Vanin said. "I could probably make two hundred leagues in a little over a
week, if I were going alone, with a couple of good horses to ride in shifts and was crossing familiar
terrain. The whole army, though, through these hills using a broken roadway? Twenty days, I'd say.
Maybe longer."
Joline glanced at Mat.
"We aren't leaving the Band behind," Mat said. "Not an option, Joline."
She looked away, her expression dissatisfied.
"You're welcome to go on your own," Mat said. "That goes for each of you. You Aes Sedai aren't my
prisoners; leave any time you want, so long as you head north. I won't risk you heading back to be taken
by Sean-chan."
What would it be like, traveling with just the Band again, not an Aes Sedai in sight? Ah, if only.
Teslyn looked thoughtful. Joline glanced at her, but the Red didn't give any indication if she'd be willing
to leave or not. Edesina, however, hesitated, then nodded to Joline. She was willing.
"Very well," Joline said to Mat with a haughty air. "It would be good to be away from your crudeness,
Cauthon. Prepare for us, say, twenty mounts and we shall be off."
"Twenty?" Mat asked.
"Yes," Joline said. "Your man here mentioned that he'd need two horses to make the trip in a reasonable
amount of time. So that he could remount, presumably, when one of the beasts grew tired."
"I count two of you," Mat said, his anger rising. "That means four horses. I figured you'd be smart enough
to do that math, Joline." And then, softer, he added. "If just barely."
Joline eyes opened wide, and Edesina's expression was painted with shock. Teslyn gave him a shocked
glance, seeming disappointed. To the side, Talmanes just lowered his pipe and whistled quietly.
"That medallion of yours makes you impudent, Matrim Cauthon," Joline said coldly.
"My mouth makes me impudent, Joline," Mat replied with a sigh,
ON A BROKEN ROAD
321
fingering the medallion hidden beneath his loosely tied shirt. "The medallion just makes me truthful. I
believe you were going to explain why you need to take twenty of my horses when I barely have enough
for my men as it is?"
"Two each for Edesina and myself," Joline said stiffly. "Two each for the former sul'dam. You don't
presume that I'm going to leave them behind to be corrupted by your little band here?"
"Two sul'dam," Mat said, ignoring the barb. "That's eight horses."
"Two for Setalle. I assume she'll want to be away from all of this with us."
"Ten."
"Two more for Teslyn," Joline said. "She will undoubtedly want to go with us, though she currently has
nothing to say on the matter. And we'll need about four pack animals worth to carry our things. They'll
have to trade their burdens too, so four more for that. Twenty."
"Which you'll feed how?" Mat asked. "If you're riding that hard, you won't have time to graze your
horses. There's barely anything for them to eat these days anyway." That had proven a big problem; the
spring grass wasn't coming in. The meadows they passed were brown with fallen leaves, the dead winter
weeds pressed flat by snow, barely a new shoot of grass or weed. Horses could feed on the dead leaves
and winter grass, of course, but wild deer and other animals had been active, eating down whatever they
could find.
If the land didn't decide to start blooming soon . . . well, they were in for a difficult summer. But that was
another problem entirely.
"We will need you to give us feed, of course," Joline said. "And some coin for inns. . . ."
"And who is going to take care of all those horses? You going to brush them down each night, check their
hooves, see that their feed is properly measured?"
"I suppose we should take a handful of your soldiers with us," Joline said, sounding dissatisfied. "A
necessary inconvenience."
"The only thing that is necessary," Mat said flatly. "Is for my men to stay where they're wanted, not
where they're an inconvenience. No, they stay—and you'll have no coin from me. If you want to go, you
can take one horse each and a single packhorse to carry your things. I'll give you some feed for the poor
beasts, and giving you that much is generous."
"But with only one horse each, we'll barely be faster than the army!" Joline said.
322
THE GATHERING STORM
"Imagine that," Mat said. He turned away from her. "Vanin, go and tell Mandevwin to pass the word.
We'll be camping soon. I know it's barely afternoon, but I want the Band far enough from that village not
to be threatening, but close enough that a few of us can go down to feel things out."
"All right," Vanin said, with none of the respect he'd shown the bloody Aes Sedai. He turned his horse
and began to ride down the line.
"And Vanin," Mat called. "Make sure Mandevwin is aware that when I say 'a few of us' will go down, I
mean a very small group, led by myself and Talmanes. I won't have that village invaded by seven
thousand soldiers looking for fun! I'll buy a cart in the town and what ale I can find, then send it back for
the men. There is to be strict order in camp, with no one accidentally wandering down to visit, now.
Understand?"
Vanin nodded, looking grim. It was never fun to be the one who had to inform the men that they weren't
going to be getting leave. Mat turned back to the Aes Sedai. "Well?" he asked. "You taking my kind offer
or not?"
Joline just sniffed, then trotted her horse back down the ranks, obviously turning down the chance to go
alone. Pity, that. It would have made him smile each step of the way to think of it. Though, it probably
would have taken Joline all of three days to find some sap in a village somewhere to give her his horses
so that her crew could ride faster.
Edesina rode away, and Teslyn trailed after, regarding Mat with a curious expression. She still looked
disappointed in him too. He glanced away, then felt annoyed at himself. What did be care what she
thought?
Talmanes was looking at him. "That was odd of you, Mat," the man said.
"What?" Mat said. "The restriction on the men? They're a good lot, the Band, but I've never known a
group of soldiers who weren't likely to get themselves in a little trouble now and then, particularly where
there's ale to be found."
"I wasn't talking about the men, Mat," Talmanes said, bending to tap out his pipe against his stirrup, dottle
falling to flutter back onto the stony roadway beside his horse. "I'm talking about how you treated the Aes
Sedai. Light, Mat, we could have been rid of them! I'd count twenty horses and some coin a bargain to be
free of two Aes Sedai."
"I won't be shoved around," Mat said stubbornly, waving for the Band to begin its march again. "Not even
to get rid of Joline. If she wants something from me, let her ask with a grain of politeness, rather than
trying to
ON A BROKEN ROAD
323
bully me into giving her whatever she wants. I'm no lap dog." Burn it, he wasn't! And he wasn't
husbandly either, whatever that meant.
"You really do miss her," Talmanes said, sounding a little surprised as their horses fell into pace beside
one another.
"What are you blathering about now?"
"Mat, you are not always the most refined of men, I'll admit. Sometimes your humor is indeed a bit ripe
and your tone on the brusque side. But you are rarely downright rude, nor intentionally insulting. You
really are on edge, aren't you?"
Mat said nothing, just pulled the brim of his hat down again.
"I'm sure that she will be fine, Mat," Talmanes said, tone gentler. "She is royalty. They know how to take
care of themselves. And she's got those soldiers watching after her. Not to mention Ogier. Ogier warriors!
Who would think of such a thing? She'll be all right."
"We're done with this conversation," Mat said, shifting his spear to hold it upright, curved blade toward
the unseen sun above, butt in the lancer's strap at the side of his saddle.
"I just—"
"Over," Mat said. "You don't have any more of that tabac, do you?"
Talmanes sighed. "It was the last pinch. Good tabac—Two Rivers grown. The only pouch of it I've seen
in some time. It was a gift from King Roedran, along with the pipe."
"He must have valued you."
"It was good, honest work," Talmanes said. "And terribly boring. Not like riding with you, Mat. It's good
to have you back, crust and all. But your talk of feed with the Aes Sedai does have me worried."
Mat nodded. "How are we on rations?"
"Low," Talmanes said.
"We'll buy what we can at the village," Mat said. "We've got coin coming out our ears, after what
Roedran gave you."
A small village wasn't likely to have enough to supply the whole army. But, according to the maps, they'd
soon be entering more populated lands. You'd pass a village or two every day in those areas, traveling
with a quick force like the Band. To stay afloat, you scavenged and bought whatever little bit you could at
each village you passed. A wagonload here, a cartful there, a bucket or two of apples from a passing
farmstead. Seven thousand men was a lot to feed, but a good commander knew not to turn down even a
handful of grain. It added up.
324
THE GATHERING STORM
"Yes, but will the villagers sell?" Talmanes asked. "On our way down to meet you, we had a savage time
getting anyone to sell us food. Seems there isn't much to be found these days. Food is getting scarce, no
matter where you go and no matter how much money you have."
Bloody perfect. Mat ground his teeth, then grew annoyed at himself for doing so. Well, maybe he was a
little on edge. Not because of Tuon, though.
Either way, he needed to relax. And that village ahead—what had Vanin called it? Hinderstap? "How
much coin do you have on you?"
Talmanes frowned. "Couple of gold marks, pouch full of silver crowns. Why?"
"Not enough," Mat said, rubbing his chin. "We'll have to dig some more out of my personal chest first.
Maybe bring the whole thing." He turned Pips around. "Come on."
"Wait, Mat," Talmanes said, reining in and following. "What are we doing?"
"You're going to kindly take me up on my offer to go enjoy ourselves at the tavern," Mat said. "And while
we're at it, we're going to resupply. If my luck's with me, we'll do it for free."
If Egwene or Nynaeve had been there, they'd have boxed his ears and told him he was going to do no
such thing. Tuon probably would have looked at him curiously and then said something that made him
feel his shame right down into his boots.
The good thing about Talmanes, however, was that he simply spurred his horse forward, face stoic, eyes
betraying just a hint of amusement. "Well, I've got to see this, then!"
CHAPTER 21
Embers and Ash
Perrin opened his eyes and found himself hanging in the air. He felt a spike of terror, floundering in the
sky. Black clouds boiled overhead, dark and ominous. Below, a plain of wild brown grasses rolled in the
wind, no signs of humans. No tents, no roads, not even any footprints.
Perrin wasn't falling. He just hung there. He waved his arms reflex-ively, as if to swim, panicking as his
mind tried to make sense of the dis-orientation.
The wolf dream, he thought. I'm in the wolf dream. I went to sleep, hoping to come here.
He forced himself to breathe in and out and still his flailing, though it was difficult to be calm while
hanging hundreds of feet up in the sky. Suddenly, a gray-furred form shot past him, leaping through the
air. The wolf soared down to the field below, landing easily.
"Hopper!"
Jump down, Young Bull. Jump. It is safe. As always, the Sending from the wolf came as a mixture of
scents and images. Perrin was getting better and better at interpreting those—the soft earth as a
representation of the ground, rushing wind as an image of jumping, the scent of relaxation and calmness
to indicate there was no need to fear.
"But how?"
325
326
THE GATHERING STORM
Times before, you always rushed ahead, like a pup newly weaned. Jump. Jump down! Far below, Hopper sat on
his haunches in the field, grinning up at Perrin.
Perrin ground his teeth and muttered a curse or two for stubborn wolves. It seemed to him that the dead
ones were particularly bull-headed. Though Hopper did have a point. Perrin had leaped before in this
place, if never from the sky itself.
He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes and imagined himself jumping. Air rushed around him in a
sudden burst, but then his feet hit soft ground. He opened his eyes. A large gray wolf, scarred from many
fights, was sitting on the ground beside him, and wild millet spread out in a broad plain around him,
heavily mixed with stands of long, thin grasses that reached high in the air. Scratchy stalks rubbed against
Per-rin's arms in the wind, making him itch. The grasses smelled too dry, like cut hay left in a barn over
the winter.
Some things were transitory here in the Wolf Dream; leaves lay in a pile by his feet at one moment, but
then were gone the next. Everything smelled just faintly stale, as if it weren't quite there.
He looked up. The sky was stormy. Normally, clouds in this place were as transitory as other things. It
could be completely overcast; then, in a blink, it would suddenly be clear. This time, those dark storm
clouds remained. They boiled, spun, and shot lines of lightning between different thunderheads. Yet the
lightning never struck the ground, and it made no noise.
The plain was oddly silent. The clouds shrouded the entire sky, ominous. And they did not leave.
The hast Hunt comes. Hopper looked up at the sky. We will run together, then. Unless we sleep instead.
"Sleep?" Perrin said. "What of the Last Hunt?"
It comes, Hopper agreed. If Shadowkiller falls to the storm, all will sleep forever. If he lives, then we will hunt
together. You and us.
Perrin rubbed his chin, trying to sort through the Sending of images, smells, sounds, feelings. It made
little sense to him.
But, well, he was here now. He'd wanted to come, and he'd decided that he'd get some answers from
Hopper, if he could. It was good to see Hopper again.
Run, Hopper sent. His Sending was not alarmed. It was an offer. Let us run together.
Perrin nodded, and began to jog through the grasses. Hopper loped
EMBERS AND ASH
327
beside him, sending amusement. Two legs, Young Bull? Two legs are slow! That Sending was an image
of men stumbling over themselves, tripping because of their elongated, silly legs.
Perrin hesitated. "I have to keep control, Hopper," he said. "When I let the wolf take control . . . well, I do
dangerous things."
The wolf cocked his head, trotting beside Perrin across the grassy field. The stalks crunched and scraped
as the two of them passed through, finding a small game trail, turning along it.
Run, Hopper urged, obviously confused at Perrin's reluctance.
"I can't," Perrin said, stopping. Hopper turned and took a few bounds back to him. He smelled confused.
"Hopper, I frighten myself," Perrin said, "when I lose control. The first time it happened to me was just
after I met the wolves. You need to help me understand."
Hopper simply continued to stare at him, tongue hanging out the front of his mouth just slightly, jaws
parted.
Why am I doing this? Perrin thought, shaking his head. Wolves didn't think like men. What did it matter
what Hopper thought of it all?
We will hunt together, Hopper sent.
"What if I don't want to hunt with you?" Perrin said. Saying the words made his heart twist. He did like
this place, the wolf dream, dangerous though it could be. There were wonderful things about what had
happened to him since leaving the Two Rivers.
But he couldn't continue to lose control. He had to find a balance. Throwing away the axe had made a
difference. The axe and the hammer were different weapons—one could be used only for killing, while
the other gave him a choice.
But he had to make good on that choice. He had to control himself. And the first step seemed to be
learning to control the wolf within him.
Run with me, Young Bull, Hopper sent. Forget these thoughts. Run like a wolf.
"I can't," Perrin replied. He turned, scanning the plains. "But I need to know this place, Hopper. I need to
learn how to use it, control it."
Men, Hopper thought, Sending the smells of dismissiveness and anger. Control. Always control.
"I want you to teach me," Perrin said, turning back to the wolf. "I want to master this place. Will you
show me how?"
Hopper sat back on his haunches.
"Fine," Perrin said. "I will search out other wolves who will."
328
THE GATHERING STORM
He turned, striking down the game trail. He didn't recognize this place, but he'd learned that the wolf
dream was unpredictable. This meadow with the waist-high grass and its stands of yew could be
anywhere. Where would he find wolves? He quested out with his mind, and found that it was much more
difficult to do here.
You don't want to run. But you look for wolves. Why are you so difficult, cub? Hopper sat in front of him
in the grass.
Perrin grumbled, then took a leap that launched him through the air a hundred yards. He landed with his
foot falling to the grass as if it had been a normal step.
And there Hopper was ahead of him. Perrin hadn't seen the wolf leap. He had been in one place, and now
in another. Perrin gritted his teeth, questing out again. For other wolves. He felt something, distant. He
needed to push harder. He concentrated, drew more strength into himself, somehow, and managed to push
his mind farther.
This is dangerous, Young Bull, Hopper sent. You come here too strongly. You will die.
"You always say that," Perrin replied. "Tell me what I want to know. Show me how to learn."
Stubborn pup, Hopper Sent. Return when you aren't determined to poke your snout into afireasp's den.
With that, something slammed against Perrin, a weight against his mind. Everything vanished, and he was
tossed—like a leaf before a storm—out of the wolf dream.
Faile felt her husband stir next to her as he slept. She glanced at him in the dark room; though she lay
beside him on the pallet, she hadn't been sleeping. She'd been waiting, listening to his breaths. He turned
onto his back, muttering drowsily.
Of all the nights for him to be restless . . . she thought with annoyance.
They were a week out of Maiden. The refugees had made camp—or, well, camps—near a waterway that
led straight to the Jehannah Road, which was only a short distance away.
Things had gone smoothly these last few days, though Perrin had judged the Asha'man too tired still to
make gateways. She had spent the evening with her husband, reminding him of several important reasons
why he'd married her in the first place. He'd certainly been enthusiastic, though there was that odd edge to
his eyes. Not a dangerous edge, just a
EMBERS AND ASH
329
sorrowful one. He had grown haunted while they were apart. She could understand that. She had a few
ghosts of her own. One could not expect everything to remain the same, and she could tell that he still
loved her—loved her fiercely. That was enough, and so she didn't worry on it further.
But she was planning an argument that would pull his secrets from him. She would wait a few more days
for that. It was good to remind a husband that one would not sit content with everything he did, but it
wouldn't do to make him think she was unappreciative to have him back.
Quite the opposite. She smiled, rolling over and laying her hand on his chest, furred with hair, her head on
his bare shoulder. She loved this burly, tumbling avalanche of a man. Being back with him was sweeter,
even, than the victory of her escape from the Shaido.
His eyes fluttered open and she sighed. Love him or not, she wished he'd remain asleep this night! Hadn't
she tired him out enough?
He looked at her; his golden eyes seemed to glow just faintly in the darkness, though she knew it was a
trick of the light. Then he pulled her a little closer. "I didn't sleep with Berelain," he said, voice gruff. "No
matter what the rumors say."
Dear, sweet, blunt Perrin. "I know you didn't," she said consolingly. She'd heard the rumors. Virtually
every woman she'd talked to in the camp, from Aes Sedai to servant, had pretended she was trying to hold
her tongue, yet spilled the same news. Perrin, spending a night in the First of Mayene's tent.
"No, really," Perrin said, a pleading tone entering his voice. "I didn't, Faile. Please."
"I said I believed you."
"You sounded ... I don't know. Burn it, woman, you sounded jealous."
Would he never learn? "Perrin," she said flatly. "It took me the better part of a year—not to mention
considerable trouble—to seduce you, and then it only worked because there was a marriage involved!
Berelain hasn't the skill to handle you."
He reached his right hand up, scratching his beard, seeming confused. Then he just smiled.
"Besides," she added, snuggling closer, "you spoke the words. And I trust you."
"So you're not jealous?"
"Of course I am," she said, swatting his chest. "Perrin, haven't I explained this? A husband needs to know
his wife is jealous, otherwise he
33°
THE GATHERING STORM
won't realize how much she cares for him. You guard that which you find most precious. Honestly, if you
keep making me spell things out like this, then I won't have any secrets left!"
He snorted softly at that last comment. "I doubt that's possible."
He grew quiet, and she closed her eyes, hoping he'd go back to sleep. Outside the tent, she could hear the
distant voices of guards chatting on patrol and the sound of one of the farriers—Jerasid, Aemin or
Falton— working late into the night, pounding out a shoe or nail to ready one of the horses for the next
day's march. It was good to hear that sound again. The Aiel were useless when it came to horses, and the
Shaido had either released the ones they captured or turned them into workhorses. She had seen many fine
saddle mares pulling carts during her days in Maiden.
Should it feel strange to be back? She had spent less than two months as a captive, but it had seemed like
years. Years spent running errands for Sevanna, being punished arbitrarily. But that time had not broken
her. Strangely, she'd felt more like a noblewoman during those days than she had before.
It was as if she hadn't quite understood what it was to be a lady until Maiden. Oh, she'd had her share of
victories. Cba Faile, the people of the Two Rivers, Alliandre and Perrin's camp members. She'd put her
training to use, helping Perrin learn to be a leader. All of this had been important, had required her to use
what her mother and father had trained her to be.
But Maiden had opened her eyes. There, she had found people who had needed her more than she'd ever
been needed before. Beneath Se-vanna's cruel dictatorship, there had been no time for games, no room for
mistakes. She had been humiliated, beaten and nearly killed. And that had given her a true understanding
of what it was to be a liege lady. She actually felt a stab of guilt for the times she had lorded over Perrin,
trying to force him—or others—to bend to her will. Being a noblewoman meant going first. It meant
being beaten so others were not. It meant sacrificing, risking death, to protect those who depended upon
you.
No, it didn't feel strange to be back, for she'd taken Maiden—the parts that mattered—with her. Hundreds
had sworn allegiance to her among the gai'shain, and she had saved them. She had done it through Perrin,
but she had made plans, and one way or another, she would have escaped and brought back an army to
free those who had sworn to her.
There had been costs. But she would deal with those later tonight, Light willing. She opened an eye and
peeked at Perrin. He seemed to be sleeping, but was his breath even? She slipped her arm free.
EMBERS AND ASH
331
"I don't care what happened to you," he said.
She sighed. No, not asleep. "What happened to me?" she asked with confusion.
He opened his eyes, staring up at the tent. "The Shaido, the man who was with you when I saved you.
Whatever he did . . . whatever you did to survive. It's all right."
Was that what was bothering him? Light! "You big ox," she said, thumping a fist on his chest, causing
him to grunt. "What are you saying? That it would be all right for me to be unfaithful? Just after you were
so concerned to tell me that you hadn't been?"
"What? No, it's different, Faile. You were a prisoner, and—"
"And I can't care for myself? You are an ox. No one touched me. They're Aiel. You know they wouldn't
dare harm a gai'shain." It wasn't quite true; women had often been abused in the Shaido camp, for the
Shaido had stopped acting like Aiel.
But there had been others in the camp, Aiel who hadn't been Shaido. Men who had refused to accept Rand
as their Car'a'carn, but who also had trouble accepting Shaido authority. The Brotherless had been men
of honor; though they'd called themselves cast off, they had been the only ones in Maiden who had
maintained the old ways. When the gai'sbain women had started to be in danger, the Brotherless had
chosen and protected those they could. They hadn't asked anything for their efforts.
Well . . . that wasn't true. They had asked for much, but had demanded nothing. Rolan had always been an
Aiel to her in action, if not in word. But, like Masema's death, her relationship with Rolan was not
something Perrin needed to know about. She had never so much as kissed Rolan, but she had used his
desire for her as an advantage. And she suspected that he'd known what she was doing.
Perrin had killed Rolan. That was another reason that her husband didn't need to know about the
Brotherless man's kindness. It would tear Perrin apart inside if he knew what he'd done.
Perrin relaxed, closing his eyes. He had changed during these two months, perhaps as much as she had.
That was good. In the Borderlands, her people had a saying: "Only the Dark One stays the same." Men
grew and progressed; the Shadow just remained as it was. Evil.
"We'll have to do some planning tomorrow," Perrin said, yawning. "Once gateways are available, we will
have to decide whether to force the people to leave, and decide who goes first. Has anyone discovered
what happened to Masema?"
332
THE GATHERING STORM
"Not that I know of," she said carefully. "But with so many of his possessions gone from his tent. . . ."
"Masema doesn't care about possessions," Perrin mumbled quietly, eyes still closed. "Though maybe he
would have taken them to rebuild. I guess he might have run off, though it's strange that nobody knows
where or how."
"He probably slipped away during the confusion after the battle."
"Probably," Perrin agreed. "I wonder . . ." He yawned. "I wonder what Rand will say. Masema was the
point of this whole trip. I was to fetch him and bring him back, and I guess I've failed."
"You destroyed the men who were murdering and robbing in the Dragon's name," Faile said, "and you cut
out the heart of the Shaido leadership, not to mention all you've learned about the Seanchan. I think the
Dragon will find that what you've accomplished here far outweighs not bringing Masema back."
"Maybe you're right," Perrin mumbled sleepily. "Blasted colors. ... I don't want to watch you sleeping,
Rand. What happened to your hand? Light-blinded fool, take better care of yourself. . . . You're all we
have. . . . Last Hunt coming. ..."
She could barely make out that last part. Why was he talking about Rand's hand going hunting? Was he
actually falling asleep this time?
Sure enough, he soon started snoring softly. She smiled, shaking her head fondly. He was an ox,
sometimes. But he was her ox. She climbed off of the pallet and moved through their tent, pulling on a
robe and tying its belt. A pair of sandals followed, and then she slipped out through the tent flaps. Arrela
and Lacile guarded there, along with two Maidens. The Maidens nodded to her; they would keep her
secret.
Faile left the Maiden guards, but took Arrela and Lacile with her as she walked out into the darkness.
Arrela was a dark-haired Tairen woman who was taller than most Maidens, with a brusque way about her.
Lacile was short, pale, and very slender, and she walked with a graceful sway. They were as different as
women could get, perhaps, though their captivity had united them all. Both members of Cha Faile had
been captured with her and gone to Maiden as gai'sbain.
After traveling a short distance, they picked up two other Maidens— Bain and Chiad had spoken with
them, likely. They passed out of the camp, moving to a spot where a pair of willow trees stood side by
side. There, Faile was met by a pair of women who still wore gai'shain white. Bain and Chiad were
Maidens themselves, first-sisters and dear to Faile. They were
EMBERS AND ASH
333
more loyal—even—than those who had sworn to her. Loyal to her, yet free of oaths to her. A
contradiction only Aiel could pull off.
Unlike Faile and the others, Bain and Chiad would not put off the white just because their captors had
been defeated. They would wear the clothing for a year and a day. In fact, coming here this night—
acknowledging their lives from before they had been taken—stretched what their honor would allow.
However, they admitted that being gai'shain in the Shaido camp had been anything but standard.
Faile met them with a smile, but did not shame them by calling them by name or by using Maiden
handtalk. However, she couldn't keep herself from asking, "You are well?" as she accepted a small bundle
from Chiad.
Chiad was a beautiful woman with gray eyes and short, reddish blond hair hidden beneath the hood of her
gai'shain robe. She grimaced at the question. "Gaul searched the entire Shaido camp to find me, and
reports say he defeated twelve algai'd'siswai with his spear. Perhaps I shall have to make a bridal wreath
for him after all, once this is all through."
Faile smiled.
Chiad smiled back. "He did not expect that one of the men he killed would turn out to be the one to whom
Bain was gai'shain. I do not think Gaul is happy to have both of us serving him."
"Foolish man," Bain—the taller of the two—said. "Very like him to not watch where he jabbed his spear.
He couldn't kill the right man without accidentally slaying a few others." Both women chuckled.
Faile smiled and nodded; Aiel humor was beyond her. "Thank you very much for fetching these," she
said, holding up the small, cloth-wrapped bundle.
"It was nothing," Chiad said. "There were too many hands working that day, so it was easy. Alliandre
Maritha Kigarin already waits for you at the trees. We should return to the camp."
"Yes," Bain added. "Perhaps Gaul would like his back rubbed again, or water fetched for him. He grows
so angry when we ask, but gai'shain gain honor only through service. What else are we to do?"
The women laughed again, and Faile shook her head as they ran back toward the camp, white robes
swishing. She cringed at the thought of having to wear such clothing again, if only because it made her
think about her days of service to Sevanna.
Lanky Arrela and graceful Lacile joined her at the base of the two willows. The Maiden guards stayed
behind, watching from afar. A third
334
THE GATHERING STORM
Maiden joined those two, moving out of the shadows, likely sent by Bain and Chiad to protect Alliandre.
Faile found the dark-haired queen standing at the base of the trees, looking like a lady again in a rich red
gown with golden chains lacing her hair. It was an extravagant display, as if she were determined to
disprove the days she'd spent acting as a servant. Alliandre's gown made Faile more aware of her simple
robe. But there wasn't much she could have done without waking Perrin. Arrela and Lacile wore only the
embroidered breeches and shirts common to those in Cba Faile.
Alliandre carried a small lantern with the shutters drawn, letting out only a crack of light that illuminated
her youthful face, topped by dark hair. "Did they find anything?" she asked. "Please tell me that they did."
She had always been impressively grounded, for a queen, if somewhat demanding. Her time in Maiden
seemed to have tempered the latter feature.
"Yes." Faile hefted the bundle. The four women huddled around her as she knelt on the ground, the tips of
the short grass lit by the lantern, shining like tongues of flame. Faile unwrapped the bundle. The contents
weren't anything extraordinary. A small handkerchief of yellow silk. A belt of worked leather which had a
pattern of bird feathers pressed into its sides. A black veil. And a thin leather band with a stone tied at the
center.
"That belt belonged to Kinhuin," Alliandre said, pointing to it. "I saw him wearing it, before. ..." She
trailed off, then knelt and picked it up.
"The veil is that of a Maiden," Arrela said.
"They're different?" Alliandre asked with surprise.
"Of course they are," Arrela said, picking up the veil. Faile had never met the Maiden who had become
Arrela's protector, but the woman had fallen in the battle, though not as dramatically as Rolan and the
others.
The piece of silk was Jhoradin's; Lacile hesitated, then took it in her hands, turning it over and revealing
that there was a spot of blood on it. That left only the leather cord. Rolan had worn it at his neck, on
occasion, beneath his cadin'sor. Faile wondered what it had meant to him, and if there was any
significance to the single bit of stone, a rough-cut chunk of turquoise. She picked it up, then glanced at
Lacile. Surprisingly, the slender woman seemed to be crying. Because Lacile had gone so quickly to the
hefty Brotherless's bed, Faile had assumed that her relationship with him had been one of necessity, not
affection.
"Four people are dead," Faile said, mouth suddenly dry. She spoke formally, for that was the best way to
keep the emotion from her voice. "They protected us, even cared for us. Though they were the enemy, we
EMBERS AND ASH
335
mourn them. Remember, though, that they were Aiel. For an Aiel, there are far worse ends than death in
combat."
The others nodded, but Lacile met Faile's eyes. For the two of them, it was different. When Perrin had
barreled out of that alleyway—roaring in anger at seeing Faile and Lacile apparently being manhandled
by Shaido— many things had happened very quickly. In the fray, Faile had distracted Rolan at just the
right moment, making him hesitate. He'd done so out of concern for her, but that pause had allowed Perrin
to kill him.
Had Faile done it intentionally? She still didn't know. So much had been going through her mind, so
many emotions at seeing Perrin. She'd cried out, and . . . she could not decide if she'd been trying to
distract Rolan to let him die by Perrin's hand.
For Lacile, there was no such wavering. Jhoradin had leaped in front of her, putting her behind him and
raising his weapon against the intruder. She'd put a knife in his back, killing a man for the first time in her
life. And it had been a man whose bed she'd shared.
Faile had killed Kinhuin, the other member of the Brotherless who had protected them. He wasn't the first
man whose life she had taken— nor the first one she'd taken from behind. But he was the first man she'd
killed who had seen her as a friend.
There was nothing else that could have been done. Perrin had seen only Shaido, and the Brotherless had
seen only an invading enemy. That conflict could not have ended without Perrin or the Brotherless dead.
No amount of screaming would have stopped any of the men.
But that made it more tragic. Faile steeled herself to keep her eyes from tearing up like Lacile's. She
hadn't loved Rolan, and she was glad that Perrin was the one who had survived the conflict. But Rolan
had been an honorable man, and she felt . . . dirtied, somehow, that his death had been her fault.
This shouldn't have had to be. But it was. Her father had often spoken of situations like this, when you
had to kill people you liked just because you met them on the wrong side of the battlefield. She'd never
understood. If she had to go back and do it again, she would take the very same actions. She wouldn't be
able to risk Perrin. Rolan had had to die.
But the world seemed a sadder place to her for the necessity of it.
Lacile turned away, sniffling softly. Faile knelt, taking a small flask of oil from the bundle Chiad had left.
She took the leather strap and pulled off the stone, then set the strap in the center of the cloth bundle. She
poured the oil on it, then used a tinder stick, lit at the lantern, to set the strap afire.
336
THE GATHERING STORM
She watched it burn, tiny little flames of blue and green, topped by orange. The scent of burning leather
was shockingly similar to that of burning human flesh. The night was still, no wind to shake the flames,
and so they danced freely.
Alliandre doused the belt and put it on to the miniature fire. Arrela did the same with the veil. Finally,
Lacile added the handkerchief. She was still crying.
This was all they could do. There hadn't been a way to see to the bodies in the chaos of leaving Maiden.
Chiad had said there was no dishonor in leaving them, but Faile had needed to do something. Some small
way of honoring Rolan and the others.
"Dead by our hand," Faile said, "or simply dead from battle, these four showed us honor. As the Aiel
would say, we have great toh to them. I don't think it can be repaid. But we can remember them. The
Brother-less and one Maiden showed us kindness when they didn't need to. They kept their honor when
others had abandoned it. If there is a redemption to be found for them, and for us, this will be it."
"There's a Brotherless in Perrin's camp," Lacile said, eyes reflecting the flames of their pyre. "Niagen is
his name; he is gai'shain to Sulin, the Maiden. I went to tell him of what the others did for us. He is a kind
man."
Faile closed her eyes. Lacile probably meant that she had gone to the bed of this Niagen. That wasn't
forbidden of gai'shain. "You can't replace Jhoradin like that," she said, opening her eyes. "Or undo what
you did."
"I know," Lacile said defensively. "But they were so full of humor, despite the terrible situation. There
was something about them. Jhoradin wanted to take me back to the Three-fold Land, make me his wife."
And you'd never have done it, Faile thought. / know you wouldn't have. But now that he's dead, you realize the
opportunity you lost.
Well, who was she to chastise? Let Lacile do as she wished. If this Niagen was half the man that Rolan or
the others had been, then perhaps Lacile would do well with him.
"Kinhuin had only just started looking out for me," Alliandre said. "I know what he wished for, but he
never demanded it. I think he was planning to leave the Shaido, and would have helped us escape. Even if
I turned him down, he would have helped us."
"Marthea hated what the other Shaido did," Arrela said. "But she stayed with them for her clan. She died
for that loyalty. There are worse things to die for."
EMBERS AND ASH
337
Faile watched the last embers of the miniature pyre flicker out. "I think Rolan actually loved me," she
said. And that was all.
The four rose and returned to the camp. The past was a field of embers and ash, an old Saldaean proverb
said, the remnants of the fire that was the present. Those embers blew away behind her. But she kept
Rolan's turquoise stone. Not for regret, but for remembrance.
Perrin lay awake in the still night, smelling the canvas of his tent and the unique scent of Faile. She wasn't
there, though she had been recently. He'd dozed off, and now she was gone. Perhaps to the privy.
He stared up in the darkness, trying to make sense of Hopper and the wolf dream. The more he thought
about it, the more determined he grew. He would march to the Last Battle—and when he did, he wanted
to be able to control the wolf inside of him. He wanted either to be free of all of these people who
followed him, or to learn how to accept their loyalty.
He had some decisions to make. They wouldn't be easy, but he'd make them. A man had to do hard
things. That was the way of life. That was what had gone wrong with the way he'd handled Faile's
capture. Instead of making decisions, he'd avoided them. Master Luhhan would have been disappointed in
him.
And that led Perrin to another decision, the hardest of all. He was going to have to let Faile ride into
danger, perhaps risk her again. Was that a decision? Could he make such a decision? The mere thought of
her in danger made him want to sick up. But he would have to do something.
Three problems. He would face them and he would decide. But he would consider them first, because that
was what he did. A man was a fool to make decisions without thinking first.
But the decision to face his problems brought him a measure of peace, and he rolled over and drifted back
to sleep.
CHAPTER
22
The Last That Could Be Done
Semirhage sat alone in the small room. They had taken away her chair and given her no lantern or candle.
Blast this cursed Age and its cursed people! What she would have given for glowbulbs on the walls.
During her days, prisoners hadn't been denied light. Of course, she had locked several of her experiments
away in total darkness, but that was different. It had been important to discover what effect the lack of
light would have on them. These so-called Aes Sedai who held her, they had no rational reason for
leaving her in darkness. They just did it to humiliate her.
She pulled her arms closer, huddling against the wooden wall. She did not cry. She was of the Chosen! So
what if she had been forced to abase herself? She was not broken.
But . . . the fool Aes Sedai no longer regarded her as they had. Semirhage hadn't changed, but they had.
Somehow, in one swoop, that cursed woman with the paralis-net in her hair had unraveled Semirhage's
authority with the entire lot of them.
How? How had she lost control so quickly? She shuddered as she remembered being turned over the
woman's knees and spanked. And the nonchalance of it. The only emotion in the woman's voice had been
a slight annoyance. She'd treated Semirhage—one of the Chosen!—as if she were barely worthy of notice.
That had galled more than the blows.
338
THE LAST THAT COULD BE DONE
339
It would not happen again. Semirhage would be ready for the blows next time, and she would give them
no weight. Yes, that would work. Wouldn't it?
She shuddered again. She had tortured hundreds, perhaps thousands, in the name of understanding and
reason. Torture made sense. You truly saw what a person was made of, in more ways than one, when you
began to slice into them. That was a phrase she'd used on numerous occasions. It usually made her smile.
This time it did not.
Why couldn't they have given her pain? Broken fingers, cuts into her flesh, coals in the pits of her elbows.
She had steeled her mind to each of these things, preparing for them. A small, eager part of herself had
looked forward to them.
But this? Being forced to eat food off the floor? Being treated like a child in front of those who had
regarded her with such awe?
I will kill her, she thought, not for the first time. / will remove her tendons, one at a time, using the Power to
heal her so that she lives to experience the pain. No. No, I'll do something new to her. I will show her agony that
hasn't been known to anyone in any Age!
"Semirhage." A whisper.
She froze, looking up in the darkness. That voice had been soft, like a chill wind, yet still sharp and
biting. Had she imagined it? He couldn't be there, could he?
"You have failed greatly, Semirhage," the voice continued, so soft. A faint light shone underneath the
door, but the voice came from inside her cell. The light seemed to grow brighter, and it flushed a deep
red, illuminating the hem of a figure in a black cloak standing before her. She looked up. The ruddy light
revealed a face of white, the color of dead skin. The face had no eyes.
She immediately knelt to the floor, prostrating herself on the aged wood. Though the figure before her
looked like a Myrddraal, it was much taller and much, much more important. She shivered as she
remembered the voice of the Great Lord himself, speaking to her.
When you obey Shaidar Haran, you obey me. When you disobey. . . .
"You were to capture the boy, not kill him," the figure whispered in a hiss, like steam escaping through
cracks between pot and lid. "You took his hand and nearly his life. You have revealed yourself and have
lost valuable pawns. You have been captured by our enemies, and now they have broken you." She could
hear the smile on its lips. Shaidar Haran was
340
THE GATHERING STORM
the only Myrddraal she had ever seen bear a smile. But, then, she did not think this thing was truly a
Myrddraal.
She did not reply to its charges. One did not lie, or even make excuses, before this figure.
Suddenly, the shield blocking her vanished. Her breath caught. Saidar had returned! Sweet power.
However, as she reached for it, she hesitated. Those imitation Aes Sedai outside would feel it if she
channeled.
A cold, long-nailed hand touched her chin. The flesh of it felt like dead leather. It rotated her face upward
to meet the eyeless gaze. "You have been given one last chance," the maggotlike lips whispered. "Do.
Not. Fail."
The light faded. The hand at her chin withdrew. She continued to kneel, fighting down terror. One last
chance. The Great Lord always rewarded failure in ... imaginative ways. She had given such rewards
before, and had no desire to receive them. They would make any torture or punishment these Aes Sedai
could imagine look childish.
She forced herself to her feet, feeling her way around the room. She reached the door and, holding her
breath, tried it.
The door opened. She slipped out of the room without letting the hinges creak. Outside, three corpses lay
on the ground, slumped free of their chairs. The women who had been maintaining her shield. There was
someone else there, kneeling on the floor before the three of them. One of the Aes Sedai. A woman in
green, with brown hair, pulled back into a tail, her head bowed.
"I live to serve, Great Mistress," the woman whispered. "I am instructed to tell you that there is
Compulsion in my mind you are to remove."
Semirhage raised an eyebrow; she hadn't realized there were any of the Black among those Aes Sedai
here. Removing Compulsion could have a very . . . nasty effect on a person. Even if the Compulsion were
weak or subtle, the brain could be harmed seriously by removing it. If the Compulsion were strong . . .
well, it was quite interesting to watch.
"Also," the woman said, handing something forward, wrapped in cloth. "I am to give you this." She
removed the cloth, revealing a dull-colored metallic collar, and two bracelets. The Domination Band.
Crafted during the Breaking, strikingly similar to the a'dam Semirhage had spent so much time working
with.
With this ter'angreal, a male channeler could be controlled. A smile finally broke through Semirhage's
fear.
THE LAST THAT COULD BE DONE
341
Rand had only visited the Blight on a single occasion, though he could faintly remember having come to
this area on several occasions, before the Blight infected the land. Lews Therin's memories. Not his own.
The madman took to hissing and muttering angrily as they rode through the Saldaean scrub. Even
Tai'daishar grew skittish as they moved northward.
Saldaea was a brown landscape of brushland and dark soil, nowhere near as barren as the Aiel Waste, but
hardly a soft or lush land. Homesteads were common, but they had nearly the look of forts, and young
children held themselves like trained warriors. Lan had once told him that among Borderlanders, a boy
became a man when he earned the right to carry a sword.
"Has it occurred to you," Ituralde said, riding on Rand's left, "that what we are doing here could constitute
an invasion?"
Rand nodded toward Bashere, who rode through the brush at Rand's right. "I bring with me troops of their
own blood," he said. "The Sal-daeans are my allies."
Bashere laughed. "I doubt that the Queen will see it that way, my friend! It's been many months since I
last asked her for orders. Why, I wouldn't be surprised to find that she's demanded my head by now."
Rand turned his eyes forward. "I am the Dragon Reborn. It is not an invasion to march against the forces
of the Dark One." Ahead of them rose the foothills of the Mountains of Dhoom. They had a dark cast, as
if their slopes were coated with soot.
What would he himself do if another monarch used a gateway to deposit nearly fifty thousand troops
within his borders? It was an act of war, but the Borderlanders' forces were away doing Light only knew
what, and he would not leave these lands undefended. Just an hour's ride to the south, Ituralde's Domani
had set up a fortified camp beside a river that had its source up in the highlands of World's End. Rand had
inspected their camp and ranks. After that, Bashere had suggested that Rand ride up to inspect the Blight.
The scouts had been surprised at how quickly the Blight was advancing, and Bashere thought it important
that Ituralde and Rand see for themselves. Rand agreed. Maps sometimes couldn't convey the truth eyes
could see.
The sun was dipping toward the horizon like a drooping eye longing for sleep. Tai'daishar stamped a
hoof, tossing his head. Rand raised a hand,
342
THE GATHERING STORM
halting his group—two generals, fifty soldiers and an equal number of Maidens, with Narishma at the
back to weave gateways.
Northward, on the shallow slope, a scrub of broad-bladed grasses and squat brush swayed like waves in
the wind. There was no specific line where the Blight began. A spot on a blade there, a sickly cast to a
stem there. Each individual speck was innocent, yet there were too many, far too many. At the top of the
hillside, not a single plant was free of the spots. The pox seemed to fester even as he watched.
There was an oily sense of death to the Blight, of plants barely surviving, kept alive like prisoners starved
to the very edge of mortality. If Rand had seen anything like this back in a field in the Two Rivers, he
would have burnt the entire crop, and would have been surprised that it hadn't been done already.
To his side, Bashere knuckled his long, dark mustaches. "I remember when it didn't start for another few
leagues," he noted. "That wasn't so long ago."
"I have patrols running the length of it already," Ituralde said. He stared out at the sickly landscape. "All
the reports are the same. It's quiet out there."
"That should be enough warning that something is wrong," Bashere said. "There are always patrols or
raids of Trollocs to fight. If not that, then something worse, to scare them away. Worms or bloodwrasps."
Ituralde leaned one arm on his saddle, shaking his head as he continued staring at the Blight. "I've no
experience with fighting such things. I know how men think, but Trolloc raiding parties keep no supply
lines, and I've only heard stories of what worms can do."
"I will leave some of Bashere's officers with you as advisors," Rand said.
"That would help," Ituralde said, "but I wonder if it wouldn't be better to just leave him here. His soldiers
could patrol this area, and you could use my troops in Arad Doman. No offense, my Lord, but don't you
think it's odd to have us working in each other's kingdoms?"
"No," Rand said. It wasn't odd, it was bitter sense. He trusted Bashere, and the Saldaeans had served Rand
well, but it would be dangerous to leave them in their own homelands. Bashere was cousin to the Queen
herself, and what of his men? How would they react when their own people asked why they had become
Dragonsworn? Strange as it was, Rand knew that he would cause a much smaller conflagration by leaving
foreigners on Saldaean soil.
THE LAST THAT COULD BE DONE
343
His reasoning with Ituralde was equally brutal. The man had sworn to him, but allegiances could change.
Out here, near the Blight, Ituralde and his troops would have very little opportunity to turn against Rand.
They were in hostile territory, and Rand's Asha'man would be their only quick means of getting back to
Arad Doman. If left in his homeland, however, Ituralde could marshal troops and perhaps decide he didn't
need the Dragon Reborn's protection.
It was much safer to keep the armies in hostile territory. Rand hated thinking that way, but that was one of
the main differences between the man he had been and the man he had become. Only one of those men
could do what needed to be done, no matter that he hated it.
"Narishma," Rand called. "Gateway."
He didn't have to turn to feel Narishma seize the One Power and begin weaving. The sensation prickled at
Rand, enticing, but he fought it off. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to seize the Power
without emptying his stomach, and he did not intend to sick up in front of Ituralde.
"You shall have a hundred Asha'man by the end of the week," Rand said, speaking to Ituralde. "I suspect
you will make good use of them."
"Yes, I think I can do just that."
"I want daily reports, even if nothing happens," Rand replied. "Send the messengers through a gateway.
I'll be breaking camp and moving to Bandar Eban in four days."
Bashere grunted; this was the first Rand had said of the move. Rand turned his horse toward the large,
open gateway behind them. Some of the Maidens had already ducked through, going first, as always.
Narishma stood to the side, his hair in its two dark braids set with bells. He had been a Borderlander, too,
before he had become Asha'man. Too many clouded loyalties. Which would come first for Narishma? His
homeland? Rand? The Aes Sedai to whom he was a Warder? Rand was fairly certain the man was loyal;
he was one of those who had come to him at Dumai's Wells. But the most dangerous enemies were those
you assumed you could trust.
None of them can be trusted! Lews Therin said. We should never have let them get so close to us. They'll turn on us!
The madman always had trouble with other men who could channel. Rand nudged Tai'daishar forward,
ignoring Lews Therin's ramblings, though hearing the voice did take him back to that night. The night
where he had dreamed of Moridin, and there had been no Lews Therin in
344
THE GATHERING STORM
his mind. It twisted Rand's belly to know that his dreams were no longer safe. He had come to rely on
them as a refuge. Nightmares could take him, true, but they were his own nightmares.
Why had Moridin come to help Rand in Shadar Logoth, back during the fight with Sammael? What
twisted webs was he weaving? He had claimed that Rand had invaded his dream, but was that just another
lie?
/ have to destroy them, he thought. All of the Forsaken, and I must do it for good this time. I must be hard.
Except that Min didn't want him to be hard. He didn't want to frighten her, of all people. There were no
games with Min; she might call him a fool, but she did not lie, and that made him want to be the man she
wished him to be. But did he dare? Could a man who could laugh also be the man who could face what
needed to be done at Shayol Ghul?
To live you must die, the answer to one of his three questions. If he succeeded, his memory—his
legacy—would live on after he died. It was not very comforting. He didn't want to die. Who did? The
Aiel claimed they did not seek death, though they embraced it when it came.
He entered the gateway, Traveling back to the manor house in Arad Doman, with the ring of pines
surrounding the trampled brown grounds and the long ranks of tents. It would take a hard man to face his
own death, to fight the Dark One while his blood spilled on the rocks. Who could laugh in the face of
that?
He shook his head. Having Lews Therin in his mind didn't help.
She's right, Lews Therin said suddenly.
She? Rand asked.
The pretty one. With the short hair. She says we need to break the seals. She's right.
Rand froze, pulling Tai'daishar up short, ignoring the groom who had come to take the horse. To hear
Lews Therin agreeing. . . .
What do we do after that? Rand asked.
We die. You promised we could die!
Only if we defeat the Dark One, Rand said. You know that if he wins, there will be nothing for us. Not even death.
Yes . . . nothing, Lews Therin said. That would be nice. No pain, no regret. Nothing.
Rand felt a chill. If Lews Therin began to think that way . . . No, Rand said, it wouldn't be nothing. He would
have our soul. The pain would be worse, far worse.
Lews Therin began to weep.
THE LAST THAT COULD BE DONE
345
Lews Therin! Rand snapped in his mind. What do we do? How did you seal the Bore last time?
It didn't work, Lews Therin whispered. We used saidin, but we touched it to the Dark One. It was the only way!
Something has to touch him, something to close the gap, but he was able to taint it. The seal was weak!
Yes, but what do we do differently? Rand thought.
Silence. Rand sat for a moment, then slid off of Tai'daishar and let the nervous groom lead him away. The
rest of the Maidens were coming through the large gateway, Bashere and Narishma taking the rear. Rand
didn't wait for them, though he noticed Deira Bashere—Davram Bashere's wife—standing outside the
Traveling ground. The tall, statuesque woman had dark hair with lines of white at the temples. She gave
Rand a measuring look. What would she do if Bashere died in Rand's service? Would she continue to
follow, or would she lead the troops away, back to Saldaea? She was as strong of will as her husband.
Perhaps more so.
Rand passed her with a nod and a smile and walked through the evening camp toward the manor house.
So Lews Therin did not know how to seal the Dark One's prison. What good was the voice then? Burn
him, but he had been one of Rand's few hopes!
Most people here were wise enough to move away when they saw him stalking across the grounds. Rand
could remember when such moods hadn't struck him, when he had been a simple sheepherder. Rand the
Dragon Reborn was a different man altogether. He was a man of responsibility and duty. He had to be.
Duty. Duty was like a mountain. Well, Rand felt as if he was trapped between a good dozen different
mountains, all moving to destroy him. Among those forces, his emotions seemed to boil under pressure.
Was it any wonder when they burst free?
He shook his head, approaching the manor. To the east lay the Mountains of Mist. The sun was near to
setting, and the mountains were bathed in a red light. Beyond them and to the south, so strangely close,
lay Emond's Field and the Two Rivers. A home he would never see again, for a visit would only alert his
enemies to his affection for it. He had worked hard to make them think he was a man without affection.
At times, he feared that his ruse had become reality.
Mountains. Mountains like duty. The duty of solitude in this case, for somewhere southward along those
too-near mountains was his father. Tarn. Rand hadn't seen him in so long. Tam was his father. Rand had
decided that. He had never known his birth father, the Aiel clan chief named
346
THE GATHERING STORM
Janduin, and while he had obviously been a man of honor, Rand had no desire to call him father.
At times, Rand longed for Tarn's voice, his wisdom. Those were the times when Rand knew he had to be
the most hard, for a moment of weakness—a moment running to his father for succor—would destroy
nearly everything he had worked for. And it would likely mean the end of Tarn's life as well.
Rand entered the manor house through the burned hole in the front, pushing aside the thick canvas that
now formed an entry, and kept his back to the Mountains of Mist. He was alone. He needed to be alone.
Relying on anyone would risk being weak when he reached Shayol Ghul. At the Last Battle, he would not
be able to lean on anyone other than himself.
Duty. How many mountains must one man carry?
It still smelled of smoke inside the manor house. Lord Tellaen had complained about the fire
hesitantly—yet persistently—until Rand had ordered compensation for the man, although the bubble of
evil hadn't been Rand's fault. Or had it? Being ta'veren had many strange effects, from making people say
things they wouldn't normally to bringing him the allegiance of those who had been wavering. He was a
focus for trouble, bubbles of evil included. He hadn't chosen to be that focus, but he had chosen to stay in
the manor house.
Either way, Tellaen had been compensated. It was a pittance compared with the amount of money Rand
was spending to fund his armies, and even that was small compared with the funds he'd dedicated to bring
food to Arad Doman and other troubled areas. At this rate, his stewards worried that he would soon
bankrupt his assets in Illian, Tear and Cairhien. Rand had not told them that he didn't care.
He would see the world to the Last Battle.
And will you have no legacy other than that? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Not Lews Therin,
but his own thought, a small voice, the part of him that had prompted him to found schools in Cairhien
and Andor. You wish to live after you die? Will you leave all of those who follow you to war, famine and chaos?
Will the destruction be how you live on?
Rand shook his head. He couldn't fix everything! He was just one man. Looking beyond the Last Battle
was foolish. He couldn't worry about the world then, he couldn't. To do so would be to take his eye off
the goal.
And what is the goal? that voice seemed to say. Is it to survive, or is it to
THE LAST THAT COULD BE DONE
347
thrive? Will you set the groundwork for another Breaking or for another Age of Legends?
He had no answers. Lews Therin roused slightly, babbling incoherently. Rand climbed the stairs to the
second floor of the manor. Light, he was tired.
What was it the madman had said? When he'd sealed the Bore into the Dark One's prison, he'd used
saidin. That was because so many of the Aes Sedai at the time had turned against him, and he'd been left
only with the Hundred Companions—the most powerful male Aes Sedai of his time. No women. The
female Aes Sedai had called his plan too risky.
Eerily, Rand felt as if he could almost remember those events—not what had happened, but the anger, the
desperation, the decision. Was the mistake, then, not using the female half of the power as well as the
male? Was that what had allowed the Dark One to counterstrike and taint saidin, driving Lews Therin and
the remaining men of the Hundred Companions insane?
Could it be that simple? How many Aes Sedai would he need? Would he need any} Plenty of Wise Ones
could channel. Surely there was more to it than that.
There was a game children played, Snakes and Foxes. It was said that the only way to win was to break
the rules. What of his other plan, then? Could he break the rules by slaying the Dark One? Was that
something that even he, the Dragon Reborn, dared contemplate?
He crossed the creaking wood floor of the hallway and pushed open the door to his room. Min lay
propped up by pillows on the log bed, wearing her embroidered green trousers and a linen shirt, as she
leafed through yet another book by the light of a lamp. An elderly serving woman bustled about,
collecting dishes from Min's evening meal. Rand threw off his coat, sighing to himself and flexing his
hand.
He sat down on the side of the bed as Min set aside her book, a volume called A Comprehensive Discussion of
Pre-Breaking Relics. She sat up and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Bowls clinked as the serving
woman gathered them, and she bowed in apology, moving with extra speed as she placed them in her
carrying basket.
"You're pushing yourself too hard again, sheepherder," Min said.
"I have to."
She pinched his neck hard, and he flinched, grunting. "No you don't," she said, her voice close to his ear.
"Haven't you been listening to me?
348
THE GATHERING STORM
What good will you be if you wear yourself out before you reach the Last Battle? Light, Rand, I haven't
heard you laugh in months!"
"Is this really a time for laughter?" he asked. "You would have me be happy while children starve and
men slaughter one another? I should laugh to hear that Trollocs are still getting through the Ways? I
should be happy that the majority of the Forsaken are still out there somewhere, plotting how best to kill
me?"
"Well, no," Min said. "Of course not. But we can't let the troubles in the world destroy us. Cadsuane says
that—"
"Wait," he snapped, twisting around so that he was facing her. She knelt on the bed, short dark hair
curling down beneath her chin. She looked shocked by his tone.
"What does Cadsuane have to do with this?" he asked.
Min frowned. "Nothing."
"She's been telling you what to say," Rand said. "She's been using you to get to me!"
"Don't be an idiot," Min said.
"What has she said about me?"
Min shrugged. "She worries about how harsh you've become. Rand, what is this?"
"She's trying to get to me, manipulate me," he said. "She's using you. What have you told her, Min?"
Min pinched him again sharply. "I don't like that tone, looby. I thought Cadsuane was your counselor.
Why should I need to watch what I say around her?"
The serving woman continued to clink dishes. Why couldn't she just leave! This wasn't the kind of
discussion he wanted to have in front of strangers.
Min couldn't be working with Cadsuane, could she? Rand didn't trust Cadsuane by any measure. If she'd
gotten to Min. . . .
Rand felt his heart twist. He wasn't suspicious of Min, was he? She'd always been the one he could look to
for honesty, the one who played no games with him. What would he do if he lost her? Burn me! he
thought. She's right. I've grown too harsh. What will become of me if I begin to grow suspicious of those that I
know love me? I'll be no better than mad Lews Therin.
"Min," he said, softening his voice. "Maybe you're right. Perhaps I've gone too far."
She turned to look at him, relaxing. Then she stiffened, eyes widening in shock.
THE LAST THAT COULD BE DONE
349
Something cold clicked around Rand's neck.
Rand immediately raised his hand to his neck, spinning. The serving woman stood behind him, but her
form was shimmering. She vanished and was replaced by a woman with dark skin and black eyes, her
sharp face triumphant. Semirhage.
Rand's hand touched metal. Too-cold metal that felt like ice, pressed against his skin. In a rage, he tried to
pull free his sword from its black, dragon-painted sheath, but found that he could not do so. His legs
strained as if against some incredible weight. He scratched at the collar—his fingers could still
move—but the metal seemed to be a single solid piece.
At that moment, Rand felt terror. He met Semirhage's eyes anyway, and she smiled deeply. "I've been
waiting for quite a long time to get a Domination Band on you, Lews Therin. Odd, how circumstances
occur, isn't—"
Something flashed in the air, and Semirhage barely had time to cry out before something deflected the
blade just barely—a weave of Air, Rand could only assume, though he could not see weaves made from
saidar. Still, Min's knife had left a gash on the side of Semirhage's face before passing by and burying
itself in the wood of the door.
"Guards!" Min cried. "Maidens, to arms! The Car'a'carn is in danger!"
Semirhage cursed, waving a hand, and Min cut off. Rand twisted anxiously, trying—and failing—to seize
saidin. Something blocked him. Min was tossed off the bed by weaves of Air, her mouth locked shut.
Rand tried to run to her, but again found that he could not. His legs simply refused to move.
At that moment, the door to his room opened. Another women entered with a hurried step. She glanced
out of the doorway, as if watching for something, then closed it behind her. Elza. Rand felt a surge of
hope, but then the small woman joined Semirhage, taking up the other bracelet that controlled the a'dam
around Rand's neck. She looked up at Rand, her eyes red, looking dazed—as if something had hit her
soundly on the head. However, when she saw him kneeling, she smiled. "And so you finally come to your
destiny, Rand al'Thor. You will face the Great Lord. And you will lose."
Elza. Elza was Black, burn her! Rand's skin prickled as he felt her embrace saidar, standing beside her
mistress. They both confronted him, each one wearing a bracelet, and Semirhage looked supremely
confident.
Rand growled, turning to Semirhage. He would not be trapped like this!
350
THE GATHERING STORM
The Forsaken touched the bleeding gash on her cheek, then tsked to herself. She wore a drab brown dress.
How had she escaped captivity? And where had she gotten this cursed collar? Rand had given that to
Cadsuane for safekeeping. She had vowed that it would be safe!
"No guards will come, Lews Therin," Semirhage said absently, holding up her braceleted hand; the
bracelet matched the collar on his neck. "I've warded the room against listeners. You will find that you
cannot so much as move unless I allow it. You've tried already, and you must see how futile it is."
Desperate, Rand reached for saidin again, but found nothing. In his head, Lews Therin began to snarl and
weep, and Rand felt almost as if he would join the man. Min! He had to get to her. He had to be strong
enough!
He forced himself toward Semirhage and Elza, but it was as if he were trying to move someone else's
legs. He was trapped in his own head, like Lews Therin. He opened his mouth to curse, but nothing came
out beyond a croak.
"Yes,' Semirhage said, "you cannot speak without permission either. And I would suggest that you not
reach for saidin again. You will find the experience unpleasant. When I tested the Domination Band
before, I found it to be a far more elegant tool than those Seanchan a'dam. Their a'dam allow some small
measure of freedom, relying on nausea as an inhibitor. The Domination Band demands far more
obedience. You will act exactly as I desire. For instance. ..."
Rand stood up off the bed, his legs moving against his will. Then, his own hand whipped up and began to
squeeze his throat just above the neck band. He gasped, stumbling. Frantic, he reached again for saidin.
He found pain. It was as if he'd reached into a burning vat of oil, then drawn the fiery liquid into his own
veins. He screamed in shock and agony, collapsing to the wooden floor. The pain made him writhe, his
vision growing black.
"You see." Semirhage's voice sounded distant. "Ah, I had forgotten how satisfying that is."
The pain was like a million ants burrowing through his skin and down to the bone. He twisted, muscles
spasming.
We're in the box again! Lews Therin cried.
And suddenly, he was. He could see it, the black confines, crushing him. His body sore from repeated
beatings, his mind frantic to remain sane. Lews Therin had been his only companion. It was one of the
first times
THE LAST THAT COULD BE DONE
351
Rand could remember communicating with the madman; Lews Therin had started to respond to him only
shortly before that day.
Rand hadn't been willing to see Lews Therin as part of himself. The mad part of himself, the part that
could deal with the torture, if only because it was already so tortured. More pain and suffering was
meaningless. You could not fill a cup that had already begun to overflow.
He stopped screaming. The pain was still there, it made his eyes water, but the screams would not come.
All fell still.
Semirhage looked down at him, frowning, blood dripping from her chin. Another wave of pain washed
across him. Whoever he was.
He stared up at her. Silent.
"What are you doing?" she said, compelling him. "Speak."
"No more can be done to me," he whispered.
Another wave of pain. It shocked him, and something inside of him whimpered, but he gave no outward
reaction. Not because he held the screams in, but because he couldn't feel anything. The box, the two
wounds in his side corrupting his own blood, beatings, humiliation, sorrows and his own suicide. Killing
himself. He could suddenly and starkly remember that. After all of these things, what more could
Semirhage do to him?
"Great Mistress," Elza said, turning to Semirhage, eyes still seeming faintly dazed by something.
"Perhaps now we should—"
"Quiet, worm," Semirhage spat at her, wiping the blood from her chin. She looked at it. "That's twice now
those knives have tasted my blood." She shook her head, then turned and smiled at Rand. "You say
nothing more can be done to you? You forget, Lews Therin, to whom you speak. Pain is my specialty,
and you are still little more than a boy. I've broken men ten times as strong as you. Stand."
He did. The pain had not gone away. She obviously intended to keep using it against him until she got a
reaction.
He turned around, obeying her wordless command, and found Min hanging above the floor, tied by
invisible ropes of Air. Her eyes were wild with fear, her arms bound behind her back, her mouth blocked
by a woven Air gag.
Semirhage chuckled. "There is nothing more that I can do, you say?"
Rand seized saidin—not of his choice, but of hers. The roar of power slammed into him, bringing with it
the strange nausea that he'd never been able to explain. He fell to his hand and knees, emptying his
stomach with a groan as the room shook and spun around him.
"How odd," he heard Semirhage say, as if distant. He shook his head,
352
THE GATHERING STORM
still holding the One Power—wrestling with it as he always had to with saidin, forcing that powerful,
twisting flow of energy to his will. It was like chaining a tempest of wind, and was difficult even when he
was strong and healthy. Now it was nearly impossible.
Use it, Lews Therin whispered. Kill her while we can!
I will not kill a woman, Rand thought stubbornly, a figment of a memory from the back of his mind. That
is the line I will not cross. . . .
Lews Therin roared, trying to take saidin from Rand, but without success. In fact, Rand found that he
couldn't channel willfully any more than he could step without Semirhage's permission.
He righted himself by her command, the room growing more steady, the nausea retreating. And then he
began to form weaves, complicated ones of Spirit and Fire.
"Yes," Semirhage said, almost to herself. "Now, if I can remember. . . . The male way of doing this is so
odd, sometimes."
Rand made the weaves, then pushed them toward Min. "No!" he screamed as he did so. "Not that!"
"Ah, so you see," Semirhage said. "You weren't so difficult to break after all."
The weaves touched Min and she writhed in pain. Rand continued to channel, tears springing to his eyes
as he was forced to send the complex weaves through her body. They brought agony only, but they did it
very well. Semirhage must have released Min's gag, for she began to scream, weeping.
"Please, Rand!" she begged. "Please!"
Rand roared in anger, trying to stop, unable to. He could feel Min's pain through the bond, feel it as he
caused it.
"Stop this!" he bellowed.
"Beg," Semirhage said.
"Please," he said, weeping. "Please, I beg you."
Suddenly, he stopped, the torturing weaves unraveling. Min hung in the air, whimpering, eyes dazed from
the shock of pain. Rand turned around, facing Semirhage and the smaller figure of Elza beside her. The
Black looked terrified, as if she'd gotten herself into something she hadn't been prepared for.
"Now," the Forsaken said, "you see that you have always been intended to serve the Great Lord. We will
leave this room and will deal with those so-called Aes Sedai who imprisoned me. We will travel to
THE LAST THAT COULD BE DONE
353
Shayol Ghul and present you to the Great Lord, and then this can all be finished."
He bowed his head. There had to be a way out! He imagined her using him to tear through the ranks of his
own men. He imagined them afraid to attack, lest they harm him. He saw the blood, death and destruction
he would cause. And it chilled him, turned him to ice inside.
They have won.
Semirhage glanced at the door, then turned back to him and smiled. "But I'm afraid we must deal with her
first. Let us be about it, then."
Rand turned and began to walk toward Min. "No!" he said. "You promised if I begged—"
"I promised nothing," Semirhage said with a laugh. "You begged quite prettily, Lews Therin, but I have
chosen to ignore your pleas. You can release saidin, however. This needs to be somewhat more personal."
Saidin winked away, and Rand felt the withdrawal of power with regret. The world seemed more dull
around him. He stepped up to Min, her pleading eyes meeting his. Then he pressed his hand to her throat,
gripping it, and began to squeeze.
"No. . . ." he whispered in horror as his hand, against his will, cut off her air. Min stumbled, and he
unwillingly forced her down to the ground, easily ignoring her struggles. He loomed above her, pressing
his hand against her throat, gripping it and choking her. She looked at him, eyes beginning to bulge.
This can't be happening.
Semirhage laughed.
Hyena! Lews Therin wailed. Oh, Light! I've killed her!
Rand squeezed harder, leaning down for leverage, his fingers squeezing Min's skin and pushing down on
her throat. It was as if he gripped his own heart, and the world became black around him, everything
darkened except for Min. He could feel her pulse throbbing beneath his fingers.
Those beautiful dark eyes of hers watched him, loving him even as he killed her.
This can't be happening!
I've killed her!
I'm mad!
Hyena!
There had to be a way out! Had to be! Rand wanted to close his eyes,
354
THE GATHERING STORM
but he couldn't. She wouldn't let him—not Semirhage, but Min. She held his eyes with her own, tears
lining her cheeks, dark, curled hair disheveled. So beautiful.
He scrambled for saidin, but could not take it. He tried with every bit of will he had to relax his fingers,
but they just continued to squeeze. He felt horror, he felt her pain. Min's face grew purple, her eyes
fluttered.
Rand wailed. THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING/ I WILL NOT DO THIS AGAIN/
Something snapped inside of him. He grew cold; then that coldness vanished, and he could feel nothing.
No emotion. No anger.
At that moment he grew aware of a strange force. It was like a reservoir of water, boiling and churning
just beyond his view. He reached toward it with his mind.
A clouded face flashed before Rand's own, one whose features he couldn't quite make out. It was gone in
a moment.
And Rand found himself filled with an alien power. Not saidin, not saidar, but something else.
Something he'd never felt before.
Oh, Light, Lews Therin suddenly screamed. That's impossible! We can't use it! Cast it away! That is
death we hold, death and betrayal.
It is HIM.
Rand closed his eyes as he knelt above Min, then he channeled the strange, unknown force. Energy and
life surged through him, a torrent of power like saidin, only ten times as sweet and a hundred times as
violent. It made him alive, made him realize that he'd never been alive before. It gave him such strength
as he'd never imagined. It rivaled, even, the power he'd held when drawing from the Choedan Kal.
He screamed, in both rapture and rage, and wove enormous spears of Fire and Air. He slammed the
weaves against the collar at his neck, and the room exploded with flames and bits of molten metal, each
one distinct to Rand. He could feel each shard of metal blast away from his neck, warping the air with its
heat, trailing smoke as it hit a wall or the floor. He opened his eyes and released Min. She gasped and
sobbed.
Rand stood and turned, white-hot magma in his veins—as when Semirhage had tortured him, yet
somehow opposite. As painful as this was, it was also pure ecstasy.
Semirhage looked utterly shocked. "But . . . that's impossible . . ." she said. "I felt nothing. You can't—"
She looked up, staring at him with wide eyes. "The True Power. Why have you betrayed me, Great Lord?
Why?"
THE LAST THAT COULD BE DONE
355
Rand raised a hand and, filled with the power he did not understand, wove a single weave. A bar of pure
white light, a cleansing fire, burst from his hand and struck Semirhage in the chest. She flashed and
vanished, leaving a faint afterimage to Rand's vision. Her bracelet dropped to the floor.
Elza ran toward the door. She vanished before another bar of light, her entire figure becoming light for a
moment. Her bracelet dropped to the floor, as well, the women who had held them burned completely
from the Pattern.
What have you done? Lews Therin asked. Oh, Light. Better to have killed again than to do this. . . . Oh, Light. We
are doomed.
Rand savored the power for a moment longer, then—regretfully—let it drop away. He would have held
on, but he was simply too exhausted. The vanishing of it left him numb.
Or . . . no. That numbness had nothing to do with the power he'd held. He turned around, looking down at
Min, who coughed quietly and rubbed her neck. She looked up at him, and seemed afraid. He doubted
that she would ever see him the same way again.
He had been wrong; there had indeed been something more that Semirhage could do to him. He had felt
himself killing one he loved dearly. Before, when he'd done it as Lews Therin, he had been mad and
unable to control himself. He could barely remember slaying Hyena, as if through a clouded dream. He'd
realized what he had done only after Ishamael had awakened him.
Finally, now, he knew precisely what it was like to watch as he killed those he loved.
"It is done," Rand whispered.
"What?" Min asked, coughing again.
"The last that could be done to me," he said, surprised at his own calmness. "They have taken everything
from me now."
"What are you saying, Rand?" Min asked. She rubbed her neck again. Bruises were beginning to show.
He shook his head as—finally—voices sounded in the hallway outside. Perhaps the Asha'man had sensed
him channeling when he'd tortured Min.
"I have made my choice, Min," he said, turning toward the door. "You have asked for flexibility and
laughter from me, but such things are no longer mine to give. I am sorry."
Once, weeks ago, he had decided that he must become stronger— where he had been iron, he had decided
to become steel. It appeared that steel was too weak.
356
THE GATHERING STORM
He would be harder, now. He understood how. Where he had once been steel, he became something else.
From now on, he was cmndillar. He had entered a place like the void that Tarn had trained him to seek, so
long ago. But within this void he had no emotion. None at all.
They could not break or bend him.
It was done.
CHAPTER
23
A Warp in the Air
What of the sisters who were guarding her cell?" Cadsuane asked, stomping up the wooden steps beside
Merise. "Corele and Nesune are alive, thankfully, though they were left extremely weak," Merise said,
holding her skirt up as she hurried along. Narishma followed them, the bells at the end of his braids
ringing softly. "Daigian is dead. We're not certain why the other two were left alive."
"Warders," Cadsuane said. "Kill the Aes Sedai, and their Warders would know immediately—and we
would have learned that something was wrong." The Warders should have noticed that something was
wrong anyway—they'd have to interrogate the men to see what they had felt. But there was likely a
correlation.
Daigian had no living Warder. Cadsuane felt a stab of regret for the pleasant sister, but shoved it aside.
No time for it now.
"The other two were placed in some kind of trance," Merise said. "I could see no remnants of weaves, nor
could Narishma. We discovered the sisters just before the alarm was sounded, then went for you as soon
as we were assured that al'Thor was alive and our enemies had been dealt with."
Cadsuane nodded crossly. Of all the nights to be out visiting the Wise Ones in their tents! Sorilea and a
small group of them followed behind
357
358
THE GATHERING STORM
Narishma, and Cadsuane didn't dare slow her pace, lest the Aiel women trample her in their haste to see
al'Thor.
They reached the top of the stairs, then sped down the hallway toward al'Thor's room. How could he have
gotten himself into this much trouble, again\ And how had that blasted Forsaken gotten free of her cell?
Someone must have helped her, but that meant a Darkfriend in their camp. It wasn't unlikely—if
Darkfriends existed in the White Tower, then they could undoubtedly be found here. But what Darkfriend
could incapacitate three Aes Sedai? Surely channeling on that level should have been felt by every sister
or Asha'man in the camp.
"Was the tea involved?" Cadsuane asked Merise quietly.
"Not that we can tell," the Green replied. "We'll know more when the other two wake. They fell
unconscious as soon as we brought them out of their trance."
Cadsuane nodded. Al'Thor's door was open, and Maidens swarmed outside it like wasps who had just
discovered their nest was gone. Cadsuane couldn't say that she blamed them. Apparently, al'Thor had said
little of what had happened. The fool boy was lucky to still be alive! What a Light-cursed mess, Cadsuane
thought, passing the Maidens and entering the chamber.
A small knot of Aes Sedai clustered on the far side of the room, speaking quietly. Sarene, Erian,
Beldeine—all of those in the camp who weren't either dead or incapacitated. Except Elza. Where was
Elza?
The three nodded to Cadsuane as she entered, but she spared them barely a glance. Min sat on the bed,
rubbing her neck, eyes red, short hair disheveled, face pale. Al'Thor stood beside the open far window,
looking out at the night, his hand clasping his stump behind him. His coat lay rumpled on the floor, and
he stood in white shirtsleeves, a cool wind blowing in and ruffling his red-gold hair.
Cadsuane surveyed the room; behind her, in the hall, the Wise Ones began to interrogate the Maidens.
"Well?" Cadsuane said. "What happened?"
Min looked up. There were red marks on her neck, the beginnings of bruises. Rand did not turn from the
window. Insolent boy, Cadsuane thought, coming farther into the room. "Speak up, boy!" she said. "We
need to know if the camp is in danger."
"The danger has been dealt with," he said softly. Something in his voice made her hesitate. She had been
expecting anger, or perhaps satisfaction, from him. Fatigue at the very least. Instead, his voice sounded
cool.
A WARP IN THE AIR
359
"Will you explain what that means?" Cadsuane demanded.
Finally, he turned, looking at her. She took an involuntary step backward, though she couldn't say why.
He was still the same foolish boy. Too tall, too self-confident, and too blunt-headed. There was a strange
serenity about him now, but it had a dark edge. Like the serenity one saw in the eyes of a condemned man
the moment before he stepped up to the hangman's noose.
"Narishma," Rand said, looking past Cadsuane. "I have a weave for you. Memorize it; I will show it to
you only once." With that, al'Thor put his hand out to the side and a bar of brilliant white fire shot from
between his fingers and struck his coat, which lay on the floor. It vanished in a burst of light.
Cadsuane hissed. "I told you never to use that weave, boy! You will never do so again. Do you hear me!
This is not—"
"That is the weave we must use when fighting Forsaken, Narishma," al'Thor said, his quiet voice cutting
straight through Cadsuane s. "If we kill them with anything else, they can be reborn. It is a dangerous
tool, but still just a tool. Like any other."
"It is forbidden," Cadsuane said.
"I have decided that it is not," al'Thor said calmly.
"You don't have any idea what that weave can do! You're a child playing with—"
"I have seen balefire destroy cities," al'Thor said, eyes growing haunted. "I have seen thousands burned
from the Pattern by its purifying flames. If you call me a child, Cadsuane, then what are those of you who
are thousands of years my juniors?"
He met her gaze. Light! What had happened to him? She struggled to collect her thoughts. "So Semirhage
is dead?"
"Worse than dead," al'Thor said. "And far better off, in many ways, I should think."
"Well, then. I suppose we can get on with—"
"Do you recognize that, Cadsuane?" al'Thor said, nodding toward something metallic sitting on the bed,
mostly hidden by the sheets.
Hesitantly she walked forward. Sorilea looked over, expression unreadable. Apparently, she didn't wish to
be drawn into the conversation when al'Thor was in such a mood. Cadsuane didn't blame her.
Cadsuane pulled back the sheets, revealing a familiar pair of bracelets. There was no collar.
"Impossible," she whispered.
360
THE GATHERING STORM
"That is what I assumed," al'Thor said in that terribly calm voice of his. "I told myself that it obviously
couldn't be one of the same ter'angreal I relinquished to you. You promised they would be protected and
hidden."
"Well, then," Cadsuane said, unnerved. She covered the things back up. "That is settled then."
"It is. I sent people to your room. Tell me, is this box where you were keeping the bracelets? We found it
open on the floor of your quarters."
A Maiden brought out a familiar oak box. It was the same one, obviously. Cadsuane turned toward him in
anger. "You searched my room!"
"I was unaware that you were visiting the Wise Ones," al'Thor said. He gave a small nod of respect to
Sorilea and Amys, which they hesitantly returned. "I sent servants to check on you, as I feared that
Semirhage might have tried for revenge on you."
"They shouldn't have touched this," Cadsuane said, taking the box from the Maiden. "It was prepared with
very intricate wards."
"Not intricate enough," al'Thor said, turning away from her. He still stood by that darkened window,
looking out over the camp.
The room fell silent. Narishma had been asking quietly after Min's health, but he fell silent when al'Thor
stopped speaking. Rand obviously felt that Cadsuane was responsible for the male a'dam being stolen, but
that was preposterous. She had prepared the best ward she knew, but who knew what knowledge the
Forsaken had for getting past wards?
How had al'Thor survived? And what of the other contents of that box? Did al'Thor now have the access
key, or had the statuette been taken by Semirhage? Did Cadsuane dare ask? The silence continued. "What
are you waiting for?" she finally asked with all the bravado she could summon. "Do you expect an
apology from me?"
"From you?" al'Thor asked. There was no humor in his voice, just the same cold evenness. "No, I suspect
that I could sooner extract an apology from a stone than from you."
"Then—"
"You are exiled from my sight, Cadsuane," he said softly. "If I see your face again after tonight, I will kill
you."
"Rand, no!" Min said, standing up beside the bed. He didn't turn toward her.
Cadsuane felt an immediate stab of panic, but shoved it aside with her anger. "What?" she demanded.
"This is foolishness, boy. I. . . ."
He turned, and again that gaze of his made her trail off. There was a danger to it, a shadowy cast to his
eyes that struck her with more fear
A WARP IN THE AIR
361
than she'd thought her aging heart could summon. As she watched, the air around him seemed to warp,
and she could almost think that the room had grown darker.
"But. . . ." She found herself stuttering. "But you don't kill women. Everyone knows it. You can hardly
put the Maidens into danger for fear of them getting hurt!"
"I have been forced to revise that particular inclination," al'Thor said. "As of tonight."
"But—"
"Cadsuane," he said softly, "do you believe that I could kill you? Right here, right now, without using a
sword or the Power? Do you believe that if I simply willed it, the Pattern would bend around me and stop
your heart? By ... coincidence?"
Being ta'veren didn't work that way. Light! It didn't, did it? He couldn't bend the very Pattern to his will,
could he?
And yet, meeting his eyes, she did believe. Against all logic, she looked in those eyes and knew that if she
didn't leave, she would die.
She nodded slowly, hating herself, strangely weak.
He turned away from her, looking back out the window. "Be certain that I do not see your face. Ever
again, Cadsuane. You may go now."
Dazed, she turned—and from the corner of her eye, she saw a deep darkness emanating from al'Thor,
warping the air even further. When she glanced back, it was gone. With gritted teeth, she left.
"Prepare yourselves and your armies," al'Thor said to those who remained, voice echoing in the room
behind. "I intend to be gone by week's end."
Cadsuane raised a hand to her head and leaned against the hallway wall outside, heart thumping, hand
sweating. Before, she had been working against a stubborn but good-hearted boy. Someone had taken that
child and replaced him with this man, a man more dangerous than any she had ever met. Day by day, he
was slipping away from them.
And at the moment, she hadn't a blasted clue what to do about it.
CHAPTER
24
mm
A New Commitment
Exhausted from two days of riding, Gawyn sat atop Challenge on a low hill southwest of Tar Valon. This
countryside should have been green with spring's arrival, but the hillside before him bore only scraggly
dead weeds, slain by the winter snows. Tufts of yew and blackwood poked up here and there, breaking
the brown landscape. He counted more than a few stands that were now populated only by stumps. A war
camp devoured trees like hungry woodgnarls, using them for arrows, fires, buildings and siege equipment.
Gawyn yawned—he'd pushed hard through the night. Bryne's war camp was well dug in here, and was a
bustle of motion and activity. An army this large spawned organized chaos at best. A small band of
mounted cavalry could travel light, as Gawyn's Younglings had; a force like that could grow to several
thousand and remain lean. Expert horsemen, like the Saldaeans, were said to manage larger bands of
seven or eight thousand while keeping their mobility.
But a force like the one below was a different beast entirely. It was an enormous, sprawling thing, in the
shape of an enormous bubble with a smaller camp at its center; that probably held the Aes Sedai. Bryne
also had forces occupying all of the bridge towns on both sides of the River Erinin, effectively cutting off
the island from ground supply.
The army squatted near Tar Valon like a spider eyeing a butterfly
362
A NEW COMMITMENT
363
hovering just outside of its web. Lines of troops rode in and out patrolling, purchasing food, running
messages. Do2ens upon dozens of squads, some mounted, others walking. Like bees leaving the hive
while others swarmed back in. The eastern side of the main camp was crowded with a mishmash of
shanties and tents, the normal riffraff of camp followers that collected around an army. Near by, just
inside the main war-camp boundary, a wooden palisade—perhaps fifty yards across—rose in a tall ring.
Probably a command post.
Gawyn knew he had been seen by Bryne's scouts as he approached, yet none had stopped him. They
probably wouldn't unless he tried to ride away. A single man—wearing a decent gray cloak and trousers,
with a lacing shirt of white—wasn't of much interest. He could be a sell-sword, coming to ask for a place
in the ranks. He could be a messenger from a local lord, sent to complain about a group of scouts. He
could even be a member of the army. While many of those in Bryne's force wore uniforms, many others
just wore a simple yellow band on their coatsleeves, not yet able to pay for proper insignia to be sewn on.
No, a single man approaching the army was not a danger. A single man riding away from it, however,
was cause for alarm. A man coming to the camp could be friend, foe or neither. A man who inspected the
camp then rode away was almost certainly a spy. So long as Gawyn didn't leave before making his
intentions known, Bryne's outriders would be unlikely to bother him.
Light, but he could use a bed. He'd spent a restless two nights, sleeping only a couple of hours during
each one, wrapped in his cloak. He felt irritable and cranky, partially just at himself for refusing to go to
an inn, lest he be chased by the Younglings. He blinked bleary eyes, and spurred Challenge down the
incline. He was committed now.
No. He'd been committed the moment he'd left Sleete behind in Dorian. By now, the Younglings knew of
their leader's betrayal. Sleete wouldn't allow them to waste time searching. He'd tell them what he knew.
Gawyn wished he could convince himself that they'd be surprised, but he'd received more than one frown
or look of confusion regarding the way he spoke of Elaida and the Aes Sedai.
The White Tower didn't deserve his allegiance, but the Younglings— he could never go back to them,
now. It itched at him; this was the first time his wavering had been revealed to a large group. Nobody
knew that he'd helped Siuan escape, nor was it widespread knowledge that he'd dallied with Egwene.
364
THE GATHERING STORM
Yet leaving had been the right thing to do. For the first time in months, his actions matched his heart.
Saving Egwene. That was something he could believe in.
He approached the outskirts of camp, keeping his face impassive. He hated the idea of working with the
rebel Aes Sedai almost as much as he had hated abandoning his men. These rebels were no better than
Elaida. They were the ones who had propped Egwene up as an Amyrlin, as a target. Egwene! A mere
Accepted. A pawn. If they failed in their bid for the Tower, they themselves might be able to escape
punishment. Egwene would be executed.
77/ get in, Gawyn thought. /'// save her somehow. Then I'll talk some sense into her and bring her away from all of
the Aes Sedai. Perhaps even talk sense into Bryne. We can all get back to Andor, to help Elayne.
He rode forward with renewed determination, banishing some of his exhaustion. To reach the command
post, he had to ride through the camp followers, who outnumbered the actual troops. Cooks to fix the
food. Women to serve the food and wash the soiled dishes. Wagon drivers to carry the food.
Wheelwrights to fix the wagons that carried the food. Blacksmiths to make horseshoes for the horses that
pulled the wagons that carried the food. Merchants to buy the food, and quartermasters to organize it.
Less reputable merchants who sought to profit off of the soldiers and their battle pay, and women who
sought to do the same. Boys to run messages, hoping to someday carry a sword themselves.
It was a complete mess. A half-shanty conglomeration of tents and shacks, each of a different hue, design
and state of disrepair. Even a capable general like Bryne could impose only so much order on camp
followers. His men would keep the peace, more or less, but they couldn't force followers to keep military
discipline.
Gawyn passed through the middle of it all, ignoring those who called to him offering to shine his sword
or sell him a sweetbun. The prices would be low—this was a place that fed off of soldiers—but with his
war-horse and finer clothing, he'd be marked as an officer. If he bought from one, the others would smell
coin, and he could end up surrounded by all who hoped to sell to him.
He ignored the calls, eyes forward, toward the army itself ahead. Its tents were generally organized in neat
rows, grouped by squad and banner, though sometimes in smaller clusters. Gawyn could have guessed the
layout without seeing it. Bryne liked organization, but also believed
A NEW COMMITMENT
365
strongly in delegation. Bryne would allow officers to run their camps as they wished, and that led to a
setup that was less uniform, yet was far better at running itself.
He headed directly for the palisade. The camp followers around him weren't easy to ignore, however.
Their calls to him lingered in the air, together with the scents of cooking, privies, horses and cheap
perfume. The camp wasn't as crowded as a city, but it also wasn't as well maintained. Sweat mixed with
burning cook fires mixed with stagnant water mixed with unwashed bodies. It made him want to hold a
handkerchief to his face, though he refrained. It would make him look like a spoiled noble, turning his
nose up at the common people.
The stink, the confusion and the yells didn't help his mood any. He had to grit his teeth to keep himself
from cursing at each hawker. A figure stumbled onto the pathway in front of him—he reined in. The
woman wore a brown skirt and a white blouse, her hands grimy. "Out of the way," Gawyn snapped. His
mother would have been outraged to hear him speaking with such anger. Well, his mother was dead now,
by al'Thor's hand.
The woman in front of him looked up and ran back out of the pathway. She had light hair tied in a yellow
kerchief and a faintly plump body. Gawyn caught just a glimpse of her face as she turned.
Gawyn froze. That was an Aes Sedai face! It was unmistakable. He sat, shocked, as the woman pulled her
kerchief down and hurried away.
"Wait!" he called, turning his horse. But the woman did not stop. He hesitated, lowering his arm as he
saw the woman join a line of washwomen working between several wooden troughs a short distance
away. If she was pretending to be a common woman, then she likely had her own blasted Aes Sedai
reasons, and she wouldn't appreciate him exposing her. Very well. Gawyn forced down his annoyance.
Egwene. He had to focus on Egwene.
When he reached the command palisade, the air improved measurably. A quartet of soldiers stood on
guard, halberds held at their sides, steel caps gleaming and matched by breastplates emblazoned with
Bryne's three stars. A banner bearing the flame of Tar Valon flapped beside the gateway.
"Recruit?" asked one of the soldiers as Gawyn rode up. The heavyset man bore a red stripe on his left
shoulder, marking him as a watch sergeant. He carried a sword instead of a halberd. His breastplate barely
fit
366
THE GATHERING STORM
his girth, and his chin bristled with red hairs. "You'll have to meet with Captain Aldan," the man said with
a grunt. "Big blue tent about a quarter of the way around the outside of the camp. You've got your own
horse and sword; that'll get you good pay." The man pointed toward a distant point in the main body of
the army, outside the palisade. That wouldn't do. He could see Bryne's banner flying inside.
"I'm not a recruit," Gawyn said, turning Challenge to get a better look at the men. "My name is Gawyn
Trakand. I need to speak with Gareth Bryne immediately about a matter of some urgency."
The soldier raised an eyebrow. Then he chuckled to himself.
"You don't believe me," Gawyn said flatly.
"You should go speak to Captain Aldan," the man said lazily, pointing toward the distant tent again.
Gawyn took a calming breath, trying to force down his irritation. "If you'd just send for Bryne, you'd find
that—"
"Are you going to be trouble?" the soldier asked, puffing himself up. The other men readied their
halberds.
"No trouble," Gawyn said evenly. "I just need—"
"If you're going to be in our camp," the soldier interrupted, stepping forward, "you're going to have to
learn how to do what you're told."
Gawyn met the man's eyes. "Very well. We can do it this way. It will probably be faster anyway."
The sergeant laid a hand on his sword.
Gawyn kicked his feet free of the stirrups and pushed himself out of the saddle. It would be too hard to
keep from killing the man from horseback. He slid his blade free as his feet hit the muddy ground, the
sheath rasping like an inhaled breath. Gawyn fell into Oak Shakes Its Branches, a form that wielded
nonlethal blows, often used by masters for training their students. It was also very effective against a large
group all using different weapons.
Before the sergeant had his sword free, Gawyn slammed into him, ramming an elbow into his gut just
beneath the poorly fitting breastplate. The man grunted and bent, then Gawyn knocked him on the side of
the head with the hilt of his sword—the man should have known better than to wear his cap askew like
that. Then Gawyn fell into Parting the Silk to deal with the first halberdier. As another of the men
screamed for help, Gawyn's blade slashed across the first halberdier's breastplate with a ringing sound,
forcing the man back. Gawyn finished by sweeping the
A NEW COMMITMENT
367
man's feet from under him, then fell into Twisting the Wind to block a pair of blows from the other two
men.
It was unfortunate, but he had to resort to striking the thighs of the two standing halberdiers. He'd have
preferred to avoid wounding them, but fights—even one such as this, against far less skilled
opponents—became unpredictable the longer they lasted. One had to control the battlefield quickly and
soundly, and that meant dropping the two soldiers—clutching their bleeding thighs. The sergeant was out
cold from the rap to the head, but the first halberdier was rising shakily. Gawyn kicked the man's halberd
aside, then planted a boot in his face, knocking him back and bloodying his nose.
Challenge whinnied from behind, snorting and stamping the ground. The warhorse sensed a fight, but was
well trained. He knew that when his reins were dropped, he was to remain still. Gawyn wiped his blade on
his trouser leg, then slid it back into its sheath, the wounded soldiers groaning on the ground. He patted
Challenge on the nose and took up the reins again. Behind Gawyn, nearby camp followers backed away,
then ran. A group of soldiers from inside the palisade approached with bows drawn. That was not good.
Gawyn turned to face them, pulling his still-sheathed sword free from his belt and tossing it to the ground
in front of the men.
"I am unarmed," he said over the sounds of the wounded. "And none of these four will die this day. Go
and tell your general that a lone blade-master just felled a squad of his guards in under ten heartbeats. I'm
an old student of his. He'll want to see me."
One of the men scrambled forward to take Gawyn's fallen sword while another signaled to a runner. The
others kept their bows raised. One of the fallen halberdiers began to crawl away. Gawyn turned Challenge
at an angle, making ready to duck behind the horse if the soldiers moved to draw. He'd much prefer it not
come to that, but of the two of them, Challenge was far more likely to survive a few shortbow shafts than
Gawyn.
Several of the soldiers risked coming forward to help their fallen friends. The heavyset watch sergeant
was stirring, and he sat up, cursing under his breath. Gawyn made no threatening motions.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to fight the men, but he had already wasted too much time. Egwene could
be dead by now! When a man like that sergeant tried to assert his authority, you really only had two
368
THE GATHERING STORM
options. You could talk your way up through the ranks of the bureaucracy, convincing each soldier each
step of the way that you were important. Or you could make a disturbance. The second was faster, and the
camp obviously had enough Aes Sedai support to Heal a few injured soldiers.
Eventually, a small group of men strode out from inside the palisade. Their uniforms were sharp, their
postures dangerous, their faces worn. At their head came a square-faced man with graying temples and a
strong, stocky build. Gawyn smiled. Bryne himself. The gamble had worked.
The Captain-General surveyed Gawyn, then moved on to a quick inspection of his fallen soldiers. At last,
he shook his head. "Stand down," he said to his men. "Sergeant Cords."
The stocky sergeant stood up. "Sir!"
Bryne glanced back at Gawyn. "Next time a man comes to the gate claiming to be nobility and asking for
me, send for an officer. Immediately. I don't care if the man has two months of scruffy beard and reeks of
cheap ale. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," the sergeant said, blushing. "Understood, sir."
"See your men to the infirmary, Sergeant," Bryne said, still looking at Gawyn. "You, come with me."
Gawyn clenched his jaw. He hadn't received such an address from Gareth Bryne since before he'd started
shaving. Still, he couldn't really expect the man to be pleased. Just inside the palisade, Gawyn spotted a
young boy who was likely a stablehand or messenger boy. He handed Challenge to the wide-eyed youth,
instructing him to see the horse cared for. Then Gawyn retrieved his sword from the man holding it and
hurried after Bryne.
"Gareth," Gawyn said, catching up, "I—"
"Hold your tongue, young man," Bryne said, not turning toward him. "I haven't decided what I'm going to
do with you."
Gawyn snapped his mouth closed. That was uncalled for! Gawyn was still brother to the rightful Queen of
Andor, and would be First Prince of the Sword should Elayne take and hold the throne! Bryne should
show him respect.
But Bryne could be stubborn as a boar. Gawyn held his tongue. They reached a tall, peaked tent with two
guards at the front. Bryne ducked inside and Gawyn followed. The inside was neat and clean, more so
than Gawyn had expected. The desk was stacked with rolled maps and orderly sheets of paper, and the
pallets in the corner were rolled carefully, blanA NEW COMMITMENT
369
kets folded with sharp angles. Bryne was obviously relying on someone meticulous to tidy up for him.
Bryne clasped his hands behind his back, breastplate reflecting Gawyn's face as he turned around. "All
right. Explain what you're doing here."
Gawyn drew himself up. "General," he said, "I think you mistake yourself. I'm no longer your student."
"I know," Bryne said curtly. "The boy / trained would never have pulled a childish stunt like that one to
get my attention."
"The watch sergeant was belligerent, and I had no patience for the posturing of a fool. This seemed the
best way."
"The best way to what}" Bryne asked. "Outrage me?"
"Look," Gawyn said, "perhaps I was hasty, but I have an important task. You need to listen to me."
"And if I don't?" Bryne asked. "If I instead throw you out of my camp for being a spoiled princeling with
too much pride and not enough sense?"
Gawyn frowned. "Be careful, Gareth. I've learned a great deal since we last met. I think you'll find that
your sword can no longer best mine as easily as it once did."
"I have no doubt of that," Bryne said. "Light, boy! You always were a talented one. But you think that
just because you're skilled with the sword, your words hold more weight? I should listen because you'll
kill me if I don't? I thought I taught you far better than that."
Bryne had aged since Gawyn had last seen him. But that age didn't bow Bryne down—it rested
comfortably on his shoulders. A few more traces of white at his temples, a few more wrinkles around the
eyes, yet strong and lean enough of body that he looked years younger than he was. One couldn't look at
Gareth Bryne and see anything other than a man in—certainly not past—his prime.
Gawyn locked eyes with the general, trying to keep the anger from boiling out. Bryne held his gaze, calm.
Solid. As a general should be. As Gawyn should be.
Gawyn looked away, suddenly feeling ashamed of himself. "Light," he whispered, releasing his sword
and raising a hand to his head. He suddenly felt very, very tired. "I'm sorry, Gareth. You're right. I've been
a fool."
Bryne grunted. "Good to hear you say that. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you."
370
THE GATHERING STORM
Gawyn sighed, wiping his brow, wishing for something cool to drink. His anger melted away, and he felt
exhausted. "It has been a difficult year," he said, "and I rode myself too hard getting here. I'm at the edge
of my mind."
"You aren't the only one, lad," Bryne said. He took a deep breath and walked to a small serving table,
poured a cup of something for Gawyn. It was only warm tea, but Gawyn took it thankfully and sipped.
"These are times to test men," Bryne said, pouring himself a cup. He took a sip and grimaced.
"What?" Gawyn asked, glancing down at his cup.
"It's nothing. I despise this stuff."
"Then why drink it?" Gawyn asked.
"It's supposed to improve my health," Bryne grumbled. Before Gawyn could ask further, the large general
continued, "So are you going to make me throw you in the stocks before you'll tell me why you decided
to fight your way into my command post?"
Gawyn stepped forward. "Gareth. It's Egwene. They have her."
"The White Tower Aes Sedai?"
Gawyn nodded urgently.
"I know." Bryne took another drink, then grimaced again.
"We have to go for her!" Gawyn said. "I came to ask you for help. I intend to mount a rescue."
Bryne snorted softly. "A rescue? And how do you intend to get into the White Tower? Even the Aiel
couldn't break into that city."
"They didn't want to," Gawyn said. "But I don't need to take the city, I just need to sneak a small force in,
then get one person out. Every rock has its cracks. I'll find a way."
Bryne set his cup aside. He looked at Gawyn, firm, weathered face an icon of nobility. "But tell me this,
lad. How are you going to get her to come out with you?"
Gawyn started. "Why, she'll be happy to come. Why wouldn't she?"
"Because she's forbidden us to rescue her," Bryne said, clasping his hands behind his back again. "Or so
I've been able to gather. The Aes Sedai tell me little. One would think they'd be more trusting toward a
man they depend on to run this siege of theirs. Anyway, the Amyrlin can communicate with them
somehow, and she's instructed them to leave her be."
What? That was ridiculous! Obviously, the Aes Sedai in camp were fudging the facts. "Bryne, she's
imprisoned! The Aes Sedai I heard talking said that she's being beaten daily. They'll execute her!"
A NEW COMMITMENT
371
"I don't know," Bryne said. "She's been with them for weeks now and they haven't killed her yet."
"They'll kill her," Gawyn said urgently. "You know they will. Perhaps you parade a fallen enemy before
your soldiers for a time, but eventually you have to mount his head on a pike to let them know he's dead
and gone. You know I'm right."
Bryne regarded him, then nodded. "Perhaps I do. But there's still nothing I can do. I'm bound by oaths,
Gawyn. I can't do anything unless that girl instructs me to."
"You'd let her die?"
"If that's what it takes to keep my oath, then yes."
If Bryne was bound by oath . . . well, he'd sooner hear an Aes Sedai tell a lie than see Gareth Bryne break
his word. But Egwene! There had to be something he could do!
"I'll try to get you an audience with some of the Aes Sedai I serve," Bryne said. "Perhaps they can do
something. If you persuade them that a rescue is needed, and that the Amyrlin would want it, then we'll
see."
Gawyn nodded. It was something at least. "Thank you."
Bryne waved indifferently. "Though I should see you in the stocks. For wounding three of my men, if
nothing else."
"Have an Aes Sedai Heal them," Gawyn said. "From what I've heard, you've no lack of sisters to bully
you."
"Bah," Bryne said. "I can rarely get them to Heal anyone unless the soldier's life is threatened. I had a
man take a bad spill while riding the other day, and I was told that Healing would only teach him to be
reckless. 'Pain is its own lesson,' the blasted woman said. 'Perhaps next time he won't see fit to make sport
for his friends while riding.' "
Gawyn grimaced. "But surely they'll make an exception for those men. After all, an enemy did do the
wounding."
"We'll see," Bryne said. "The sisters rarely visit the soldiers. They've their own business to be about."
"There's one in the outer camp now," Gawyn said absently, glancing over his shoulder.
"Younger girl? Dark hair, without the ageless face?"
"No, this was an Aes Sedai. I could tell because of the face. She was kind of plump, with lighter hair."
"Probably just scouting for Warders," Bryne said, sighing. "They do that."
"I don't think so," Gawyn said, glancing over his shoulder. "She was
372
THE GATHERING STORM
hiding among the washwomen." As he thought about it, he realized that she could very well be a spy for
the White Tower loyalists.
Bryne's frown deepened. Perhaps he had the same thoughts. "Show me," he said, striding toward the tent
flaps. He threw them aside, walking back out into the morning light, Gawyn following.
"You never did explain what you are doing here, Gawyn," Bryne said as they walked through the orderly
camp, soldiers saluting their general as he passed.
"I told you," Gawyn said, hand resting comfortably on the pommel of his sword. "I am going to find a
way to get Egwene out of that death trap."
"I didn't mean what you're doing in my camp. I meant why you were in the area in the first place. Why
aren't you back in Caemlyn, helping your sister?"
"You have news of Elayne," Gawyn said, stopping. Light! He should have asked earlier. He really was
tired. "I heard that she was in your camp earlier. She's gone back to Caemlyn? Is she safe?"
"She hasn't been with us for a long while," Bryne said. "But she seems to be doing well." He stopped,
glancing at Gawyn. "You mean you don't know?"
"What?"
"Well, rumors are unreliable," Bryne said. "But I have confirmed many of them with the Aes Sedai, who
have been Traveling to Caemlyn to listen for news. Your sister holds the Lion Throne. It seems that she's
undone much of the mess your mother left for her."
Gawyn took a deep breath. Thank the Light, he thought, closing his eyes. Elayne lived. Elayne held the
throne. He opened his eyes, and the overcast sky seemed a little more bright. He continued walking,
Bryne falling into step beside him.
"You really didn't know," Bryne said. "Where have you been, lad? You're the First Prince of the Sword
now, or you will be once you return to Caemlyn! Your place is at your sister's side."
"Egwene first.'
"You made an oath," Bryne said sternly. "Before me. Have you forgotten?"
"No," Gawyn said. "But if Elayne has the throne, then she's safe for now. I'll get Egwene and tow her
back to Caemlyn where I can keep an eye on her. Where I can keep an eye on both of them."
Bryne snorted. "I think I'd like to watch you trying that first part,"
A NEW COMMITMENT
373
he noted. "But regardless, why weren't you there when Elayne was trying to take the throne? What have
you been doing that is more important than that?"
"I ... grew entangled," Gawyn said, eyes forward.
"Entangled?" Bryne asked. "You were at the White Tower when all of this—" He cut off, falling silent.
The two walked side by side for a moment.
"Where did you hear sisters talking about Egwene's capture?" Bryne asked. "How would you know she's
being punished?"
Gawyn said nothing.
"Blood and bloody ashes!" Bryne exclaimed. The general rarely cursed. "I knew that the person leading
those raids against me was too well informed. And here I was, looking for a leak among my officers!"
"It doesn't matter now."
"I'll judge that," Bryne said. "You've been killing my men. Leading raids against me!"
"Leading raids against the rebels," Gawyn said, turning hard eyes on Bryne. "You may blame me for
bullying my way into your camp, but do you honestly expect me to feel guilty for helping the White
Tower against the force besieging it?"
Bryne fell silent. Then he nodded curtly. "Very well. But that makes you an enemy commander.'
"No longer," Gawyn said. "I've left that command."
"But—"
"I helped them," Gawyn said. "I no longer do. Nothing I see here will return to your enemies, Bryne. I
swear it on the Light."
Bryne didn't respond immediately. They passed tents, likely for the high officers, approaching the
palisade wall. "Very well," Bryne said. "I can trust you haven't changed enough to break your word."
"I wouldn't turn against that oath," Gawyn said harshly. "How could you think that I would?"
"I've had experience with unexpected renunciations of oaths lately," Bryne said. "I said I believe you, lad.
And I do. But you still haven't explained why you didn't return to Caemlyn."
"Egwene was with the Aes Sedai," Gawyn said. "As far as I knew, Elayne was as well. This seemed a
good place to be, although I wasn't certain I liked Elaida's authority."
"And what is Egwene to you?" Bryne asked softly.
Gawyn met his eyes. "I don't know," he admitted. "I wish I did."
374
THE GATHERING STORM
Strangely, Bryne chuckled. "I see. And I understand. Come, let's find this Aes Sedai you think you saw."
"I did see her, Gareth," Gawyn said, nodding to the guards as they passed out the gates. The men saluted
Bryne, but watched Gawyn as they would a blacklance. As well they should.
"We shall see what we find," Bryne said. "Regardless, once I get you a meeting with the Aes Sedai
leaders, I want your word that you'll go back to Caemlyn. Leave Egwene to us. You need to help Elayne.
It's your place to be in Andor."
"I could say the same of you." Gawyn surveyed the teeming followers' camp. Where had the woman
been?
"You could," Bryne said gruffly. "But it wouldn't be true. Your mother saw to that."
Gawyn glanced at him.
"She put me out to pasture, Gawyn. Banished me and threatened me with death."
"Impossible!"
Bryne looked grim. "I felt the same way. But it is true nonetheless. The things she said . . . they stung,
Gawyn. That they did indeed."
That was all Bryne said, but from him, it spoke volumes. Gawyn had never heard the man offer a word of
discontent about his station or his orders. He had been loyal to Morgase—loyal with the kind of
steadfastness a ruler could only hope for. Gawyn had never known a man more sure, or a man less likely
to complain.
"It must have been part of some scheme," Gawyn said. "You know Mother. If she hurt you, there was a
reason."
Bryne shook his head. "No reason other than foolish love for that fop Gaebril. She nearly let her clouded
head ruin Andor."
"She'd never!" Gawyn snapped. "Gareth, you of all people should know that!"
"I should," Bryne said, lowering his voice. "And I wish I did."
"She had another motive," Gawyn said stubbornly. He felt the heat of anger rise within him again. Around
them, peddlers glanced at the two, but said nothing. They probably knew not to approach Bryne. "But
now we'll never know it. Not now that she's dead. Curse al'Thor! The day can't come soon enough when I
can run him through."
Bryne looked at Gawyn sharply. "Al'Thor saved Andor, son. Or as near to it as a man could."
A NEW COMMITMENT
375
"How could you say that?" Gawyn said, pulling his hand away. "How could you speak well of that
monstet? He killed my mother!"
"I don't know if I believe those rumors or not," Bryne said, rubbing his chin. "But if I do, lad, then
perhaps he did Andor a favor. You don't know how bad it got, there at the end."
"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Gawyn said, lowering his hand to his sword. "I won't hear her name
soiled like that, Bryne. I mean it."
Bryne looked him directly in the eyes. His gaze was so solid. Like eyes carved of granite. "I'll always
speak truth, Gawyn. No matter who challenges me on it. It's hard to hear? Well, it was harder to live. No
good comes of spreading complaints. But her son needs to know. In the end, Gawyn, your mother turned
against Andor by embracing Gaebril. She needed to be removed. If al'Thor did that for us, then we have
need to thank him."
Gawyn shook his head, rage and shock fighting one another. This was Gareth Bryne?
"These aren't the words of a spurned lover," Bryne said, face set, as if shoving aside emotions. He spoke
softly as he and Gawyn walked, camp followers giving them a wide berth. "I can accept that a woman
could lose affection for a man and bestow it on another. Yes, Morgase the woman I can forgive. But
Morgase the Queen? She gave the kingdom to that snake. She sent her allies to be beaten and imprisoned.
She wasn't right in her mind. Sometimes, when a soldier's arm festers, it needs to be cut free to save the
man's life. I'm pleased at Elayne's success, and it is a wound to speak these words. But you have to bury
that hatred of al'Thor. He wasn't the problem. Your mother was."
Gawyn kept his teeth clenched. Never, he thought. / will nevet forgive al'Thor. Not for this.
"I can see the intent behind that look," Bryne said. "All the more reason to get you back to Andor. You'll
see. If you don't trust me, ask your sister. See what she says of it."
Gawyn nodded sharply. Enough of that. Ahead, he noted the place where he'd seen the woman. He
glanced toward the distant lines of washwomen, then turned and strode toward them, edging between two
merchants with pungent pens full of chickens, selling eggs. "This way," he said, perhaps too sharply.
He didn't look to see if Bryne followed. Soon the general caught up to him, looking displeased, but he
kept his peace. They walked down a
376
THE GATHERING STORM
crowded, twisting pathway among people in browns and dull grays, and soon reached the line of women
kneeling before two long wooden troughs of slowly flowing water. Men stood at the far end, pouring
water down the troughs, and the line of women washed clothing in the sudsy one, then rinsed them off in
the cleaner trough. No wonder the ground was so wet! At least here it smelled of suds and cleanliness.
The women had their sleeves rolled up to their upper arms, and most of them chatted idly as they worked,
rubbing clothing against boards in the troughs. They were all dressed in those same brown skirts he had
seen on the Aes Sedai. Gawyn rested his hand idly on his pommel, inspecting the women from behind.
"Which one?" Bryne asked.
"Just a moment," Gawyn said. There were dozens of women. Had he really seen what he'd thought? Why
would an Aes Sedai be in this camp, of all places? Surely Elaida wouldn't send an Aes Sedai out to spy;
their faces made them too easy to recognize.
Of course, if they were that easy to recognize, why couldn't he spot her now?
And then he saw her. She was one of the only women who wasn't chatting with those around her. She
knelt with her head bowed, the yellow kerchief tied around her head, shading her face, a few locks of light
hair sticking out from under the cloth. Her posture was so subservient that he almost missed her, but the
shape of her body stood out. She was plump, and that kerchief was the only yellow one in the line.
Gawyn strode down the line of working women, several of whom stood up, hands on hips as they
explained in no uncertain terms that "Soldiers with their big feet and awkward elbows" should stay out of
the way of women at work. Gawyn ignored them, pressing on until he stood beside the yellow kerchief.
This is insane, Gawyn thought. There's never in all of history been an Aes Sedai who could force herself to adopt
that kind of posture.
Bryne stepped up beside him. Gawyn stooped down, trying to get a look at the woman's face. She bowed
down further, scrubbing more furiously at the shirt in the trough before her.
"Woman," Gawyn said. "May I see your face?"
She didn't respond. Gawyn looked up at Bryne. Hesitantly, the general reached down and pushed back the
plump woman's kerchief. The face underneath was distinctly Aes Sedai, with that unmistakable ageless
quality. She didn't look up. She just kept working.
A NEW COMMITMENT
377
"I said it wouldn't work," said a hefty woman nearby. The woman rose and waddled down the line,
wearing a tentlike dress of green and brown. " 'My Lady,' I told her, 'you can do as you wish, I ain't one to
refuse such as you, but someone's going to notice you.' "
"You're in charge of the washwomen," Bryne said.
The large woman nodded firmly, her red curls bouncing. "Indeed I am, General." She turned to the Aes
Sedai, curtsying. "Lady Tagren, I did warn you. Light burn me, but I did. I'm right sorry."
The woman called Tagren bowed her head. Were those tears on her cheeks? Was that even possible?
What was going on?
"My Lady," Bryne said, squatting down beside her. "Are you Aes Sedai? If you are, and you command
me to leave, I will do so without question."
A good way to approach it. If she really was Aes Sedai, she couldn't lie.
"I'm not Aes Sedai," the woman whispered.
Bryne looked up at Gawyn, frowning. What did it mean if she said that? An Aes Sedai couldn't lie. So. ...
The woman softly said, "My name is Shemerin. I was Aes Sedai, once. But no more. Not since. . . ." She
looked down again. "Please. Just leave me to work in my shame."
"I will," Bryne said. Then he hesitated. "But I'll need you to talk to some sisters from the camp first.
They'd have my ears if I don't bring you in to speak with them."
The woman, Shemerin, sighed but stood up.
"Come on," Bryne said to Gawyn. "I have no doubt that they'll also want to talk to you. Best to get this
over with quickly."
CHAPTER
25
In Darkness
Sheriam peeked into her dark tent, hesitant, but saw nothing inside. Allowing herself a smile of
satisfaction, she stepped in and drew the flaps closed. Things were going quite well, for once.
Of course, she still checked her tent before she entered, searching for the one who had sometimes lurked
inside. The one whom she'd never been able to sense, yet always felt as though she should. Yes, Sheriam
still checked, and probably would for months yet—but there was no need, now. No phantom waited to
punish her.
The square little tent was large enough to stand up in, with a cot along one side and a trunk along the
other. There was just room for a desk, but it would so crowd the space that she'd barely be able to move.
Besides, there was a perfectly acceptable desk nearby, in Egwene's unused tent.
There had been talk of giving that tent to someone else—most sisters had to share, though more tents
were being brought in each week. However, the Amyrlin's tent was a symbol. As long as there was hope
of Egwene's return, her tent should wait for her. It was kept neat by the inconsolable Chesa, whom
Sheriam still caught crying about her mistress's captivity. Well, so long as Egwene was away, that tent
was functionally Sheriam's for all but sleeping. After all, an Amyrlin's Keeper was expected to look after
her affairs.
378
IN DARKNESS
379
Sheriam smiled again, sitting down on her cot. Not long ago, her life had been a perpetual cycle of
frustration and pain. Now that was over. Bless Romanda. Whatever else Sheriam thought of the fool
woman, Ro-manda had been the one to chase Halima—and Sheriam's punishments— out of the camp.
Pain would come again. There was always agony and punishment involved in the service she gave. But
she had learned to take the times of peace and cherish them.
At times, she wished she'd kept her mouth closed, not asked questions. But she had, and here she was.
Her allegiances had brought her power, as promised. But nobody had warned her of the pain. Not
infrequently she wished she'd chosen the Brown and hidden herself away in a library somewhere, never to
see others. But now she was where she was. There was no use wondering about what could have
happened.
She sighed, then removed her dress and changed her shift. She did so in the dark; candles and oil were
both rationed, and with the rebels' funds drying up, she'd need to hide away what she had for later use.
She climbed onto the cot, pulling up the blanket. She wasn't so naive as to feel guilty about the things
she'd done. Every sister in the White Tower tried to get ahead; that's what life was about! There wasn't an
Aes Sedai who wouldn't stab her sisters in the back if she thought it would give her advantage. Sheriam's
friends were just a little more . . . practiced at it.
But why had the end of days had to come now of all times? Others in her association spoke of the glory
and great honor of being alive at this time, but Sheriam didn't agree. She'd joined to rise in White Tower
politics, to have the power to punish those who spited her. She'd never wanted to participate in some final
reckoning with the Dragon Reborn, and she'd certainly never desired to have anything to do with the
Chosen!
But nothing could be done now. Best to enjoy the peace of being free of both the beatings and Egwene's
self-righteous pratings. Yes indeed. . . .
There was a woman with great strength in the Power standing outside her tent.
Sheriam snapped her eyes open. She could sense other women who could channel, just like any other
sister. Bloody ashes! she thought nervously, squeezing her eyes shut. Not again!
The tent flaps rippled. Sheriam opened her eyes to find a jet-black figure standing above her cot; slivers
of moonlight passing through the fluttering tent flaps were just enough to outline of the figure's form. It
380
THE GATHERING STORM
was clothed in an unnatural darkness, ribbons of black cloth fluttering behind it, the face obscured by a
deep blackness. Sheriam gasped and threw herself from the cot, making obeisance on the canvas tent
bottom. There was barely room enough for her to kneel. She cringed, expecting the pain to come upon her
again.
"Ah ..." a rasping voice said. "Very good. You are obedient. I am pleased."
It wasn't Halima. Sheriam had never been able to sense Halima, who it appeared had been channeling
saidin all along. Also, Halima had never come in such a ... dramatic way.
Such strength! It seemed likely that this was one of the Chosen. Either that, or at least a very powerful
servant of the Great Lord, far above Sheriam. That worried her to the bone, and she trembled as she
bowed. "I live to serve, Great Mistress," Sheriam said quickly. "I, who am blessed to bow before you, to
live during these times, to—"
"Stop your babbling," the voice growled. "You are well placed in this camp, I understand?"
"Yes, Great Mistress," Sheriam said. "I am the Keeper of the Chronicles."
The figure sniffed. "Keeper to a ragged bunch of would-be Aes Sedai rebels. But that is no matter. I have
need of you."
"I live to serve, Great Mistress," Sheriam repeated, growing more worried. What did this creature want of
her?
"Egwene al'Vere. She must be deposed."
"What?" Sheriam asked, startled. A switch of Air cracked against her back, and it burned. Fool! Did she
want to get herself killed? "My apologies, Great Mistress," she said quickly. "Forgive my outburst. But it
was by orders from one of the Chosen that I helped raise her as Amyrlin in the first place!"
"Yes, but she has proven to have been a ... poor choice. We needed a child, not a woman with merely the
face of a child. She must be removed. You will make certain this group of foolish rebels stops supporting
her. And end those blasted meetings in Tel'aran'rhiod. How is it so many of you get there?"
"We have ter'angreal," Sheriam said, hesitantly. "Several in the shape of an amber plaque, several others
in the shape of an iron disc. Then a handful of rings."
"Ah, sleep weavers," the figure said. "Yes, those could be useful. How many?"
IN DARKNESS
381
Sheriam hesitated. Her first instinct was to lie or hedge—this seemed like information she could hold over
the figure. But lying to one of the Chosen? A poor choice. "We had twenty," Sheriam said truthfully. "But
one was with the woman Leane, who was captured. That leaves us with nineteen." Just enough for
Egwene's meetings in the World of Dreams— one for each of the Sitters and one for Sheriam herself.
"Yes," the figure hissed, shrouded in darkness. "Useful indeed. Steal the sleepweavers, then give them to
me. This rabble has no business treading where the Chosen walk."
"I. . . ." Steal the ter'angreal? How was she going to manage that! "I live to serve, Great Mistress."
"Yes you do. Do these things for me, and you will find yourself greatly rewarded. Fail me. . . ." The
figure contemplated for a moment. "You have three days. Each of the sleepweavers you fail to acquire in
that time will cost you a finger or a toe." With that, the Chosen opened a gateway right in the middle of
the room, then vanished through it. Sheriam caught a glimpse of the familiar tiled hallways of the White
Tower on the other side.
Steal the sleepweavers! All nineteen of them? In three days? Darkness above! Sheriam thought. / should
have lied about the number we had! Why didn't I lie?
She remained kneeling, breathing in and out, for a long time, thinking about her predicament. Her period
of peace was at an end, it appeared.
It had been brief.
"She will be tried, of course," Seaine said. The soft-spoken White sat on a chair provided for her by the
two Reds guarding Egwene's cell.
The cell door was open, and Egwene sat on a stool inside—also provided by the Reds. Those two guards,
plump Cariandre and stern Pa-trinda, watched carefully from the hallway, both holding the Source and
maintaining Egwene's shield. They looked as if they expected her to dart away, scrambling for freedom.
Egwene ignored them. Her two days of imprisonment had not been pleasant, but she would suffer them
with dignity. Even if they locked her away in a tiny room with a door that wouldn't let in light. Even if
they refused to let her change from the bloodied novice dress. Even if they beat her each day for how she
had treated Elaida. Egwene would not bow.
382
THE GATHERING STORM
The Reds reluctantly allowed her visitors, as stipulated by Tower law. Egwene was surprised she had
visitors, but Seaine wasn't the only one who had come to her. Several had been Sitters. Curious.
Nevertheless, Egwene was starved for news. How was the Tower reacting to Egwene's imprisonment?
Were the rifts between the Ajahs still deep and wide, or had her work started to bridge them?
"Elaida broke Tower law quite explicitly," Seaine explained. "And it was witnessed by five Sitters of five
different Ajahs. She has tried to forestall a trial, but was unsuccessful. However, there were some who
listened to her argument."
"Which was?" Egwene asked.
"That you are a Darkfriend," Seaine said. "And, because of it, she expelled you from the Tower, and then
beat you."
Egwene felt a chill. If Elaida was able to get enough support for that argument. . . .
"It will not stand," Seaine said, consolingly. "This is not some backward village, where the Dragon's Fang
scrawled on someone's door is enough to convict."
Egwene raised an eyebrow. She'd been raised in "some backward village," and they'd had enough sense to
look for more than rumors in convicting someone, no matter what the crime. But she said nothing.
"Proving that accusation is difficult by Tower standards," Seaine said. "And so I suspect that she will not
try to prove it in trial—partially because doing so would require her to let you speak for yourself, and I
suspect that she'll want to keep you hidden."
"Yes," Egwene said, eyeing the Reds lounging nearby. "You are probably right. But if she can't prove I'm
a Darkfriend and she couldn't stop this from going to trial ..."
"It is not an offense worthy of deposing her," Seaine said. "The maximum punishment is formal censure
from the Hall and penance for a month. She would retain the shawl."
But would lose a great deal of credibility, Egwene thought. It was encouraging. But how to make certain that
Elaida didn't just hide her away? She had to keep the pressure on Elaida—Light-cursed difficult while
locked away in her tiny cell each day! It had been only a short time so far, but already the lost
opportunities grated on her.
"You will attend the trial?" Egwene asked.
"Of course," Seaine said, even-tempered, as Egwene had come to exIN DARKNESS
383
pect from the White. Some Whites were all coolness and logic. Seaine was much warmer than that, but
was still very reserved. "I am a Sitter, Egwene."
"I assume that you're still seeing the effects of the Dark One's stirring?" Egwene shivered and glanced at
her cell floor, remembering what had happened to Leane. Her own cell was far more austere than Leane's,
perhaps because of the accusations of her being a Darkfriend.
"Yes." Seaine's voice grew softer. "They seem to be getting worse. Servants dying. Food spoiling. Entire
sections of the Tower rearranging at random. The second kitchen moved to the sixth level last night,
moving an entire section of the Yellow Ajah quarters into the basement. It's like what happened with the
Browns earlier, and that one still hasn't been worked out."
Egwene nodded. With the way the rooms had shifted, those few novices whose rooms hadn't moved
suddenly now had assigned accommodations on the twenty-first and twenty-second levels, where Brown
Ajah quarters had been. The Browns were, reluctantly, all moving down to the wing. Would it be a
permanent change? Always before, the sisters had lived in the Tower proper, the novices and Accepted
living in the wing.
"You have to bring these things up, Seaine," Egwene said softly. "Keep reminding the sisters that the
Dark One stirs and that the Last Battle approaches. Keep their attention on working together, not
dividing."
Behind Seaine, one of the Red sisters checked the candle on the table. The time allotted for Egwene to
receive visitors was ending. She'd soon be locked away again; she could smell the dusty, unchanged straw
behind her.
"You must work hard, Seaine," Egwene said, rising as the Reds approached. "Do what I cannot. Ask the
others to do so as well."
"I will try," Seaine said. She stood and watched as the Reds took Egwene's stool, then gestured her back
into the cell. The ceiling was too low for her to stand without stooping.
Egwene moved reluctantly, bending down. "The Last Battle comes, Seaine. Remember."
The White nodded, and the door shut, locking Egwene into darkness. Egwene sat down. She felt so blind!
What would happen at the trial? Even if Elaida was punished, what would be done with Egwene?
Elaida would try to have her executed. And she still had grounds,
384
THE GATHERING STORM
as Egwene had—by the White Tower's definition—impersonated the Amyrlin Seat.
/ must stay firm, Egwene told herself in the darkness. I warmed this pot myself, and now I must boil in it, if
that is what will protect the Tower. They knew she continued to resist. That was all she could give them.
CHAPTER 26
A Crack in the Stone
Aviendha surveyed the manor grounds, swarming with people preparing to depart. Bashere's men and
women were well trained for wetlanders, and they worked efficiently to stow their tents and prepare their
gear. However, compared to the Aiel, the other wetlanders—those who weren't actual soldiers—were a
mess. Camp women skittered this way and that, as if sure they would leave some task undone or some
item unpacked. The messenger boys ran with their friends, trying to look busy so that they wouldn't have
to do anything. The civilians' tents and equipment were only slowly being packed and stowed, and they
would need horses, wagons and teams of drivers to get them all where they needed to go.
Aviendha shook her head. The Aiel brought only what they could carry, and their war band included only
soldiers and Wise Ones. And when more than just spears were required for an extended campaign, all
workers and craftspeople knew how to prepare themselves for departure with speed and efficiency. There
was honor in that. Honor which demanded that each person be able to care for themselves and their own,
not slowing the clan down.
She shook her head, turning back to her task. The only ones who truly lacked honor on a day like this
were those who did not work. She dipped a finger into the pail of water on the ground in front of her, then
385
386
THE GATHERING STORM
raised her hand and let it hover over a second pail. A drop of water dripped free. She moved her hand and
did it again.
It was the type of punishment in which no wetlander could have seen significance. They would have
thought it easy work, sitting on the ground, leaning with her back against the wooden logs of the manor
house. Moving her hand back and forth, emptying one pail and filling the other, one drop at a time. To
them it would have been barely a punishment at all.
That was because wetlanders were often lazy. They would rather drip water into pails than carry rocks.
Carrying rocks, however, involved activity—and activity was good for the mind and the body. Moving
water was meaningless. Useless. It didn't allow her to stretch her legs or work her muscles. And she did it
while the rest of the camp gathered tents for the march. That made the punishment ten times as shameful!
She earned toh for every moment she did not help, and there was not a thing she could do about it.
Except move water. Drip, by drip, by drip.
It made her angry. Then that anger made her ashamed. The Wise Ones never let their emotions dominate
them in such a way. She had to remain patient and try to understand why she was being punished.
Even trying to approach the problem made her want to scream. How many times could she go over the
same conclusions in her mind? Perhaps she was too dense to sort it out. Perhaps she didn't deserve to be a
Wise One.
She stuck her hand back in the bucket, then moved another drop of water. She didn't like what these
punishments were doing to her. She was a warrior, even if she no longer carried the spear. She did not
fear punishment, nor did she fear pain. But, more and more, she did fear that she would lose heart and
become as useless as one who sandstared.
She wanted to become a Wise One, wanted it desperately. She was surprised to find that, for she'd never
thought that she could desire anything with as much passion as she'd long ago wanted the spears. Yet as
she had studied the Wise Ones during these last months, and her respect for them had grown, she had
accepted herself as their equal, to help shepherd the Aiel in this most dangerous of days.
The Last Battle would be a test unlike any her people had ever known. Amys and the others were working
to protect the Aiel, and Aviendha sat and moved drops of water!
"Are you all right?" a voice asked.
A CRACK IN THE STONE
387
Aviendha started, looking up, reaching for her knife so abruptly that she nearly spilled the pails of water.
A woman with short, dark hair stood in the shade of the building a short distance away. Min Farshaw's
arms were folded and she wore a coat the color of cobalt with silver embroidery. She wore a scarf at her
neck.
Aviendha settled back down, releasing her knife. Now she was letting wetlanders sneak up on her? "I am
well," she said, struggling to keep from blushing.
Her tone and actions should have indicated that she didn't wish to be shamed by conversation, but Min
didn't seem to notice that. The woman turned and looked out over the camp. "Don't . . . you have anything
to be doing?"
Aviendha could not suppress the blush this time. "I am doing what I should."
Min nodded, and Aviendha forced herself to still her breathing. She could not afford to grow angry at this
woman. Her first-sister had asked her to be kind to Min. She decided not to take offense. Min didn't know
what she was saying.
"I thought that I could talk to you," Min said, still looking out at the camp. "I'm not sure who else I could
approach. I don't trust the Aes Sedai, and neither does he. I'm not sure he trusts anyone, now. Maybe not
even me."
Aviendha glanced to the side, and saw that Min was watching Rand al'Thor as he moved through the
camp, wearing a coat of black, gold-red hair ablaze in the afternoon light. He seemed to tower over the
Saldaeans who attended him.
Aviendha had heard about the events the night before, when he had been attacked by Semirhage. One of
the Shadowsouled themselves; Aviendha wished she had seen the creature before she was killed. She
shuddered.
Rand al'Thor had fought and won. Though he acted the fool much of the time, he was a skilled—and
lucky—warrior. Who else alive could claim to have personally defeated as many of the Shadowsouled as
he had? There was much honor in him.
His fight had left him scarred in ways she did not yet understand. She could feel his pain. She'd felt it
during Semirhage's attack, too, though at first she'd mistakenly thought it to be a nightmare. She'd quickly
realized that she was wrong. No nightmare could be that terrible. She could still
388
THE GATHERING STORM
feel echoes of that incredible pain, those waves of agony, the frenzy inside of him.
Aviendha had raised the alarm, but not quickly enough. She had toh to him for her mistake; she would
deal with that once she was finished with her punishments. If she ever did finish,
"Rand al'Thor will deal with his problems," she said, dripping more water.
"How can you say that?" Min asked, glancing at her. "Can't you feel his pain?"
"I feel each and every moment of it," Aviendha said through gritted teeth. "But he must face his own
trials, just as I face mine. Perhaps there will be a day when he and I can face ours together, but that time is
not now."
/ must be his equal, first, she added in her head. / will not stand beside him as his inferior.
Min studied her, and Aviendha felt a chill, wondering what visions the woman saw. Her predictions of the
future were said always to come true.
"You are not what I expected," Min finally said.
"I have deceived you?" Aviendha said, frowning.
"No, not that," Min said with a small laugh. "I mean, I was wrong about you, I guess. I wasn't certain
what to think, after that night in Caem-lyn when . . . well, that night when we bonded Rand together. I
feel close to you, yet distant from you at the same time." She shrugged. "I guess I expected you to come
looking for me the moment you got into camp. We had things to discuss. When you didn't, I worried. I
thought perhaps I had offended you."
"You have no toh to me," Aviendha said.
"Good," Min said. "I still worry sometimes that we'll . . . come to a confrontation."
"And what good would a confrontation serve?"
"I don't know," Min said with a shrug. "I figured it would be the Aiel way. Challenge me to a fight of
honor. For him."
Aviendha snorted. "Fight over a man? Who would do such a thing? If you had toh toward me, perhaps I
could demand that we dance the spears—but only if you were a Maiden. And only if I were still one too. I
suppose that we could fight with knives, but it would hardly be a fair fight. What honor would there to be
gained in fighting one with no skill?"
Min flushed, as if Aviendha had offered her an insult. What a curious
A CRACK IN THE STONE
389
reaction. "I don't know about that," Min said, flipping a knife from her sleeve and spinning it across her
knuckles. "I'm hardly defenseless." She made the knife vanish up her other sleeve. Why was it that the
wetlanders always showed off such flourishes with their knives? Thorn Merrilin had been prone to that as
well. Didn't Min understand that Aviendha could have slit the woman's throat thrice over during the time
it took to flash that knife like a street performer? Aviendha said nothing, however. Min was obviously
proud of the skill, and there was no need to embarrass the woman.
"It is unimportant," Aviendha said, continuing her work. "I would not fight with you unless you gave me
grave insult. My first-sister considers you a friend, and I would like to do so as well."
"All right," Min said, folding her arms and looking back at Rand. "Well, I guess that's a good thing. I have
to admit, I don't much like the idea of sharing."
Aviendha hesitated, then dipped her finger into the pail. "Neither do I." At least, she didn't like the idea of
sharing with a woman she didn't know very well.
"Then what do we do?"
"We continue as we have," Aviendha said. "You have what you wish, and I am occupied by other matters.
When it becomes a different time, I will inform you."
"That's . . . straightforward of you," Min said, looking confused. "You have other matters to occupy you?
Like dipping your finger in buckets of water?"
Aviendha blushed again. "Yes," she snapped. "Just like that. You will excuse me." She stood and strode
away, leaving the buckets. She knew that she should not have lost her temper, but she could not help it.
Min, repeatedly pointing out her punishment. Her inability to decipher what the Wise Ones wished of her.
Rand al'Thor, constantly putting himself into danger, and Aviendha unable to lift a finger to help him.
She could stand it no longer. She crossed the brown thatch of the manor green, clenching and unclenching
her fists, keeping her distance from Rand. The way this day was going, he'd notice her wrinkled finger
and ask why she had been soaking it! If he discovered that the Wise Ones had been punishing her, he
would probably do something rash and make a fool of himself. Men were like that, Rand al'Thor most of
all.
She stalked across the springy ground, the brown thatch patterned with square impressions where tents
had stood, threading her way through
390
THE GATHERING STORM
wetlanders scurrying this way and that. She passed a line of soldiers tossing sacks of grain to the next and
loading them in a wagon hitched to two thick-hoofed draft horses.
She kept moving, trying to keep herself from exploding. The truth was, she felt just as likely to do
something "rash" as Rand al'Thor would be. Why? Why couldn't she decipher what she was doing wrong?
The other Aiel in the camp seemed as ignorant as she, though of course they had not spoken to her of the
punishments. She remembered well seeing similar punishments when she'd been a Maiden, and had
always known to stay out of Wise One business.
She rounded the wagon, and found herself heading toward Rand al'Thor again. He was talking with three
of Davram Bashere's quartermasters, taller than each of them by a head. One of them, a man with a long
black mustache, pointed toward the horselines and said something. Rand caught sight of Aviendha and
raised his hand toward her, but she turned away quickly, moving toward the Aiel campsite at the north
side of the green.
She ground her teeth, trying—unsuccessfully—to tame her anger. Did she not have a right to anger, if
only at herself? The world was close to ending and she spent her days being punished! Ahead, she spotted
a small cluster of Wise Ones—Amys, Bair and Melaine—standing beside a pile of brown tent packs. The
tight, oblong bundles had straps for ease of carrying over the shoulder.
Aviendha should have returned to her pails and redoubled her efforts. But she did not. Like a child with a
stick charging a narshcat, she stalked up to the Wise Ones, fuming.
"Aviendha?" Bair asked. "Have you finished your punishment already?"
"No I have not," Aviendha said, stopping in front of them, hands fists at her sides. Wind tugged at her
shirt, but she let it flap. Hurrying camp workers—both Aiel and Saldaean—gave the group a wide berth.
"Well?" Bair asked.
"You are not learning quickly enough," Amys added, shaking her white-haired head.
"Not learning quickly enough?" Aviendha demanded. "I have learned everything you have asked of me! I
have memorized every lesson, repeated every fact, performed every duty. I have answered all your
questions and have seen you nod in approval at each answer!"
She stared them down before continuing. "I can channel better than
A CRACK IN THE STONE
391
any Aiel woman alive," she said. "I have left behind the spears, and I welcome my place among you. I
have done my duty and sought honor on each occasion. Yet you continue to give me punishments! I will
have no more of it. Either tell me what it is you wish of me or send me away."
She expected anger from them. She expected disappointment. She expected them to explain that a mere
apprentice was not to question full Wise Ones. She expected, at least, to be given greater punishment for
her temerity.
Amys glanced at Melaine and Bair. "It is not we who punish you, child," she said, seeming to choose her
words with care. "These punishments come by your own hand."
"Whatever I have done," Aviendha said, "I cannot see that it would have you make me da'tsang. You
shame yourselves by treating me so."
"Child," Amys said, meeting her eyes. "Are you rejecting our punishments?"
"Yes," she said, heart thumping. "I am."
"You think your stakes as strong as ours, do you?" Bair asked, shading her aged face with her hand. "You
presume to be our equal?"
Their equal? Aviendha thought, panic setting in. I'm not their equal! I have years left to study. What am I
doing?
Could she back down now? Beg forgiveness, meet her toh somehow? She should hurry back to her
punishment and move the waters. Yes! That is what she needed to do. She had to go and—
"I see no more reason to study," she found herself saying instead. "If these punishments are all you have
left to teach me, then I must assume that I have learned all that I must. I am ready to join you."
She gritted her teeth, waiting for an explosion of furious incredulity. What was she thinking? She
shouldn't have let Min's foolish talk rile her so.
And then Bair started to laugh.
It was a full-bellied sound, incongruous coming from the small woman. Melaine joined her, the
sun-haired Wise One holding her stomach, slightly bulging from her pregnancy. "She took even longer
than you, Amys!" Melaine exclaimed. "As stubborn a girl as I've ever seen."
Amys' expression was uncharacteristically soft. "Welcome, sister," she said to Aviendha.
Aviendha blinked. "What?"
"You are one of us now, girl!" Bair said. "Or soon will be."
"But I defied you!"
392
THE GATHERING STORM
"A Wise One cannot allow others to step upon her," Amys said. "If she comes into the shade of our
sisterhood thinking like an apprentice, then she will never see herself as one of us."
Bair glanced at Rand al'Thor, who stood in the distance talking to Sarene. "I never realized how important
our ways were until I studied these Aes Sedai. Those at the bottom simper and beg like hounds, and are
ignored by those who consider themselves their betters. It is a wonder they achieve anything!"
"But there is rank among Wise Ones," Aviendha said. "Is there not?"
"Rank?" Amys looked puzzled. "Some of us have more honor than others, earned by wisdom, actions and
experience."
Melaine held up a finger. "But it is important—vital, even—that each Wise One be willing to defend her
own well. If she believes that she is right, she cannot let herself be shoved aside, even by other Wise
Ones, no matter how aged or wise."
"No woman is ready to join us until she has declared herself ready," Amys continued. "She must present
herself as our equal."
"A punishment is not a true punishment unless you accept it, Aviendha," Bair said, still smiling. "We
thought you ready weeks ago, but you stubbornly continued to obey."
"Almost, I began to think you prideful, girl," Melaine added with a fond smile.
"Girl no longer," Amys said.
"Oh, she's still a girl," Bair said. "Until one more thing is done."
Aviendha felt dazed. They'd said she wasn't learning quickly enough. Learning to stand up for herself!
Aviendha had never allowed others to push her around, but these weren't "others"—they were Wise Ones,
and she the apprentice. What would have happened if Min hadn't riled her? She would have to thank the
woman, although Min didn't realize what she'd done.
Until one more thing is done. . . "What must I still do?" Aviendha asked.
"Rhuidean," Bair said.
Of course. A Wise One visited that most sacred city twice in her life. Once when she became an
apprentice, once when she became a full Wise One.
"Things will be different, now," Melaine said. "Rhuidean is no longer what it once was."
"That is no reason to abandon the old ways," Bair replied. "The city
A CRACK IN THE STONE
393
may be open, but nobody will be foolish enough to walk through the pillars. Aviendha, you must—"
"Bair," Amys cut in, "if it is well with you, I would prefer to tell her."
Bair hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, of course. It is only right. We turn our backs on you now, Aviendha.
We will not see you again until you return to us as a sister returning from a long journey."
"A sister we had forgotten that we knew," Melaine said, smiling. The two turned from her, then Amys
began to walk toward the Traveling ground. Aviendha hurried to catch up.
"You may wear your clothing this time," Amys said, "as it is the mark of your station. Normally, I would
suggest that you travel to the city by foot, even though we know of Traveling now, but I think that custom
is best bent in this case. Still, you should not Travel directly to the city. I suggest Traveling to Cold Rocks
Hold and walk from there. You must spend time in the Three-fold Land to contemplate your journey."
Aviendha nodded. "I will need a waterskin and supplies there."
"Ready and waiting for you at the hold," Amys said. "We've been expecting you to leap this chasm soon.
You should have leapt it days ago, considering all the hints we gave you." She eyed Aviendha, who
glanced down at the ground.
"You have no reason for shame," Amys said. "That burden is upon us. Despite Bair's joking, you did well.
Some women spend months and months being punished before deciding that they have had enough. We
had to be hard on you, child—harder than I've ever seen a ready apprentice treated. There is just so little
time!"
"I understand," Aviendha said. "And . . . thank you."
Amys snorted. "You forced us to be very creative. Remember this time you spent and the shame you felt,
for it is the shame any da'tsang will know, should you consign them to their fate. And they cannot escape
it simply by demanding release."
"What do you do if an apprentice declares herself ready to be a Wise One during her first few months of
training?"
"Strap her a few times and set her digging holes, I suspect," Amys said. "I don't know of that ever
happening. The closest was Sevanna."
Aviendha had wondered why the Wise Ones had accepted the Shaido woman without complaint. Her
declaration had been enough: and so Amys and the others had been forced to accept her.
Amys pulled her shawl close. "There is a bundle for you with the
394
THE GATHERING STORM
Maidens guarding the Traveling ground. Once you reach Rhuidean, travel to the center of the city. You
will find the pillars of glass. Pass through the center of them, then return here. Spend well your days
running to the city. We pushed you hard so that you would have this time for contemplation. It is likely
the last you will have for some while."
Aviendha nodded. "The battle comes."
"Yes. Return quickly once you pass through the pillars. We will need to discuss how to best handle the
Car'a'carn. He has . . . changed since last night."
"I understand," Aviendha said, taking a deep breath.
"Go," Amys said, "and return." She put emphasis on the final word. Some women did not survive
Rhuidean.
Aviendha met Amys' eyes, and nodded. Amys had been a second mother to her in many ways. She was
rewarded by a rare smile. Then Amys turned her back to Aviendha, just as the other two had.
Aviendha took another deep breath, glancing back across the trampled grass before the manor house to
where Rand spoke with the quartermasters, his expression stern, the arm missing a hand held folded
behind his back, the other arm gesturing animatedly. She smiled at him, though he wasn't looking in her
direction.
/ will be back for you, she thought.
Then she trotted to the Traveling ground, collected the pack and wove a gateway that would deposit her a
safe distance from Cold Rocks Hold, beside a rock formation known as the Maiden's Spear, from which
she could run to the hold and prepare herself. The gateway opened to the familiar, dry air of the Waste.
She ducked through the gateway, exulting—finally—in what had just happened.
Her honor had returned.
"I came out through a small Watergate, Aes Sedai," Shemerin said, bowing her head before the others in
the tent. "In truth, it wasn't so difficult, once I left the Tower and got into the city. I didn't dare leave by
one of the bridges. I couldn't let the Amyrlin know what I was doing."
Romanda watched, arms folded. Her tent was lit by two brass lamps, flames dancing at the tips. Six
women listened to the runaway's story. Lelaine was there, for all that Romanda had tried to keep her from
hearing about the meeting. Romanda had hoped that the slender Blue would
A CRACK IN THE STONE
395
be too busy basking in her status in camp to bother with such a seemingly trivial event.
Beside her was Siuan. The former Amyrlin had latched herself on to Lelaine with the strength of a
barnacle. Romanda was well enough pleased with the newfound ability to Heal a stilling—she was
Yellow after all— but a part of her wished it hadn't happened to Siuan. As if Lelaine weren't bad enough
to deal with. Romanda had not forgotten Siuan's crafty nature, even if so many others in camp seemed to
have done so. Lesser strength in the Power did not mean decreased capacity for scheming.
Sheriam was there, of course. The red-haired Keeper sat beside Lelaine. Sheriam had been withdrawn
lately, and barely maintained the dignity of an Aes Sedai. Foolish woman. She needed to be removed
from her place; everyone could see that. If Egwene ever returned—and Romanda prayed that she did, if
only because it would upset Lelaine's plans—then there would be an opportunity. A new Keeper.
The other person in the tent was Magla. Romanda and Lelaine had argued—with control, of course—over
who would be first to interrogate Shemerin. They'd decided that the only fair way was to do it together.
Because Shemerin was Yellow, Romanda had been able to call the meeting in her own tent. It had been a
shock when Lelaine had shown up with not just Siuan but Sheriam in tow. But they'd never said how
many attendants they could bring. And so Romanda was left with only Magla. The thick-shouldered
woman sat beside Romanda, listening quietly to the confession. Should Romanda have sent for someone
else? It would have looked very obvious, delaying the meeting for that.
It wasn't really an interrogation, however. Shemerin spoke freely, without resisting questions. She sat on a
small stool before them. She'd refused a cushion for it. Romanda had rarely seen a woman as determined
to punish herself as this poor child.
Not a child, Romanda thought. A full Aes Sedai, whatever she says. Burn you, Elaida, for turning one of us into this!
Shemerin had been Yellow. Burn it, she was Yellow. She'd been talking to them for the better part of an
hour now, answering questions about the status of the White Tower. Siuan had been the first to ask how
the woman had come to escape.
"Please forgive me for seeking work in the camp without coming to you, Aes Sedai," Shemerin said, head
bowed. "But I have fled the Tower against the law. As an Accepted leaving without permission, I am a
runaway. I knew I would be punished if discovered.
396
THE GATHERING STORM
"I have stayed in this area because it is so familiar, and I cannot let it go. When your army came, I saw a
chance for work, and I took it. But please, do not force me to go back. I will not be a danger. I will seek a
life as a normal woman, careful not to use my abilities."
"You are Aes Sedai," Romanda said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice. This woman's attitude lent
much credence to the things Eg-wene said about Elaida's power-hungry reign in the Tower. "No matter
what Elaida says."
"I. . . ." Shemerin just shook her head. Light! She never had been the most poised of Aes Sedai, but it was
shocking to see her fallen so far.
"Tell me about this Watergate," Siuan said, leaning forward in her chair. "Where could we find it?"
"On the southwestern side of the city, Aes Sedai," Shemerin said. "About five minutes' walk eastward
from where the ancient statues of Eleyan al'Landerin and her Warders stand." She hesitated, suddenly
seeming anxious. "But it is a small gate. You couldn't take an army through it. I only know of it because I
had the duty of caring for the beggars who live there."
"I want a map anyway," Siuan said, then she glanced at Lelaine. "At least, I think we should have one."
"It is a wise idea," Lelaine said in a nauseatingly magnanimous tone.
"I do want to know more of your . . . situation," Magla said. "How is it Elaida could think that demoting a
sister was wise? Egwene did speak of this event, and I did find it incredible then, too. What was Elaida's
thought?"
"I ... cannot speak for the Amyrlin's thought," Shemerin said. She cringed as the women in the room gave
her a set of not-so-subtle glares at calling Elaida the Amyrlin. Romanda didn't join in. Something small
was creeping beneath the canvas floor of the tent, moving from one corner toward the center of the room.
Light! Was that a mouse? No, it was too small. Perhaps a cricket. She shifted uncomfortably.
"But surely you did do something to earn her ire," Magla said. "Something worthy of such treatment?"
"I. . . ." Shemerin said. She kept glancing at Siuan for some reason.
Fool woman. Romanda almost thought Elaida had made the right move. Shemerin should never have
been given the shawl. Of course, demoting her to Accepted was no way to handle the situation either. The
Amyrlin couldn't be given that much power.
A CRACK IN THE STONE
397
Yes, that was definitely something under the canvas, determinedly pushing its way to the center of the
tent, a tiny lump moving in jerks and starts.
"I was weak before her," Shemerin finally said. "We were speaking of... events in the world. I could not
stomach them. I did not show poise befitting an Aes Sedai."
"That's it?" Lelaine asked. "You didn't plot against her? You didn't contradict her?"
Shemerin shook her head. "I was loyal."
"I find that hard to believe," Lelaine said.
"I believe her," Siuan said dryly. "Shemerin showed well enough she was in Elaida's pocket on several
occasions."
"This do be a dangerous precedent," Magla noted. "Burn my soul, but it do."
"Yes," Romanda agreed, watching the canvas-covered whatever-it-was inch along before her. "I suspect
she used poor Shemerin as an example, acclimating the White Tower to the concept of demotion. That
will let her use it on those who are actually her enemies."
The conversation hit a lull. The Sitters who supported Egwene would likely head the list of those to be
demoted, if Elaida retained her power and the Aes Sedai reconciled.
"Is that a mouse?" Siuan asked, looking down.
"It's too small," Romanda said. "And it's not important."
"Small?" Lelaine said, leaning down.
Romanda frowned, glancing at the spot again. It did seem to have grown larger. In fact—
The bump jerked suddenly, pushing upward. The canvas floor split, and a thick-bodied cockroach—as
wide as a fig—scrambled through. Romanda pulled back in revulsion.
The roach skittered across the canvas, antennae twitching. Siuan took off her shoe to swat it. But the
bottom of the tent bubbled up near the rip, and a second cockroach climbed through. Then a third. And
then a wave of them, pouring through the split like too-hot tea sprayed from a mouth. A black and brown
carpet of scrambling, scratching, scurrying creatures, pushing over one another in their hurry to get out.
The women screeched in revulsion, throwing back stools and chairs as they stood. Warders were in the
room a moment later; broad-shouldered Rorik bonded to Magla, and that coppery-skinned stone of a
398
THE GATHERING STORM
man was Burin Shaeren, bonded to Lelaine. They had swords drawn at the screams, but the cockroaches
seemed to stump them. They stood, staring at the stream of filthy insects.
Sheriam hopped up on her chair. Siuan channeled and began to squash the creatures closest to her.
Romanda hated to use the One Power for death, even on such vile creatures, but she too found herself
channeling Air and smashing the insects in swaths, but the creatures were pouring in too quickly. Soon
the ground was swarming with them, and the Aes Sedai were forced to scramble out of the tent and into
the quiet darkness of the camp. Rorik pulled the flaps shut, though that wouldn't stop the insects from
squeezing out.
Outside, Romanda couldn't stop herself from running her fingers through her hair, just in case, to make
certain none of the creatures had gotten into it. She shivered as she imagined the creatures scrambling
over her body.
"Is there anything in the tent that is dear to you?" Lelaine asked, looking back at the tent. Through the
lamplight, she could see the shadowy insects scurrying up the walls.
Romanda spared a thought for her journal, but knew that she'd never be able to touch those pages after her
tent had been infested this way. "Nothing that I'd care to keep now," she said, weaving Fire. "And nothing
I can't replace."
The others joined her, and the tent burst into flames, Rorik jumping back as they channeled. Romanda
thought she heard the insects popping and sizzling inside. The Aes Sedai moved back from the sudden
heat. In moments, the entire tent was an inferno. Women rushed out of nearby tents to look.
"I do no think that was natural," Magla said softly. "Those did be four-spine roaches. Sailors do see them
on ships that visit Shara."
"Well, it isn't the worst we've seen from the Dark One," Siuan said, folding her arms. "And we'll see
worse yet, mark my words." She eyed Shemerin. "Come, I want that map from you."
They left with Rorik and the others, who would alert the camp that the Dark One had touched it this night.
Romanda stood watching the tent burn. Soon it was only smoldering coals.
Light, she thought. Egwene is right. It is coming. Fast. And the girl was imprisoned now; she'd met with
the Hall the night before in the World of Dreams, informing them of her disastrous dinner with Elaida and
the
A CRACK IN THE STONE
399
aftermath of insulting the false Amyrlin. And yet Egwene still refused rescue.
Torches were lit and Warders roused as a precaution against more evil. She smelled smoke. That was the
remains of all she had owned in the world.
The Tower needed to be whole. Whatever it took. Would she be willing to bow before Elaida to make that
happen? Would she put on an Accepted dress again if it would bring unity for the Last Battle?
She couldn't decide. And that disturbed her nearly as much as those scuttling roaches had.
CHAPTER
27
The Tipsy Gelding
Mat didn't escape the camp without the Aes Sedai, of course. Bloody women. He rode down the ancient
stone roadway, no longer followed by the Band. He was, however, accompanied by the three Aes Sedai,
two Warders, five soldiers, Talmanes, a pack animal and Thorn. At least Aludra, Amathera and Egeanin
hadn't insisted on coming. This group was too big as it was.
The three-needle pines guarded the road, smelling of pine sap, and the air was melodic with mountain
finches' calls. It was still several hours until sundown; he'd halted the Band near noon. He rode slightly
ahead of the clustered Aes Sedai and Warders. After he'd refused Joline horses and funds, they hadn't
been about to let him win another point. Not when they could force him to take them down to the village,
where they could spend at least one night in an inn with soft beds and warm baths.
He didn't argue too loudly. He hated to have more tongues wagging about the Band, and women did
gossip, even Aes Sedai. But there was little chance of the Band passing without causing a stir in the
village anyway. If any Seanchan patrols made it through these twisting mountain paths. . . . Well, Mat
would just have to keep the Band on a steady pace northward and that was that. No use crying about it.
Besides, he was beginning to feel right again, riding Pips down that
400
THE TIPSY GELDING
401
road, spring breeze crisp in the air. He'd taken to wearing one of his older coats, red with brown trim,
unbuttoned to show his old tan shirt beneath.
This was what it was about. Traveling to new villages, throwing dice in the inns, pinching a few
barmaids. He would not think of Tuon. Flaming Seanchan. She'd be all right, wouldn't she?
No. His hands almost itched to be at the dicing. It had been far too long since he'd sat down in a corner
somewhere and thrown with the ordinary sort. They'd be a little dirtier of face and coarser of language,
but as good of heart as any man. Better than most lords.
Talmanes rode just ahead. He'd probably wish for a nicer tavern than Mat, a place to join a game of cards
rather than throwing dice. But they might not have much of a choice. The village was of decent size,
probably worthy of being called a town, but was unlikely to have more than three or four inns. Their
choices would be limited.
Decent size, Mat thought, grinning to himself as he took off his hat and scratched at the back of his head.
Hinderstap would only have three or four inns, and that made it a "small" town. Why, Mat could
remember when he'd thought Baerlon a large city, and it probably wasn't much larger than this
Hinderstap!
A horse pulled up beside him. Thom was looking at that blasted letter again. The lanky gleeman's face
was thoughtful, his white hair stirring in the breeze, as he stared down at the words. As if he hadn't read
them a thousand times already.
"Why don't you put that away?" Mat said. Thom looked up. It had taken some talking to get the gleeman
to come down to the village, but Thom needed it, needed some distraction.
"I mean it, Thom," Mat said. "I know you're eager to go for Moiraine. But it'll be weeks before we can
break away, and reading over those words won't do anything but make you anxious."
Thom nodded and folded the paper with reverent fingers. "You're right, Mat. But I'd been carrying this
letter for months. Now that I've shared it, I feel. . . . Well, I just want to be on with it."
"I know," Mat said, looking up toward the horizon. Moiraine. The Tower of Ghenjei. Mat almost felt as if
he could see the building out there, looming. That's where his path pointed, and Caemlyn was just a
stepping-stone along the way. If Moiraine was still alive . . . Light, what would that mean? How would
Rand react?
The rescue was another reason Mat felt he needed a good night dicing.
402
THE GATHERING STORM
Why had he agreed to go with Thorn into the tower? Those burning snakes and foxes—he had no desire
to see them again.
But ... he also couldn't let Thorn go alone. There was an inevitability to it. As if a part of Mat had known
all along that he had to go back and face those creatures again. They'd gotten the better of him twice now,
and the Eelfinn had tied strings around his brain with those memories in his head. He had a debt to settle
with them, that was for certain.
Mat had little love for Moiraine, but he wouldn't leave her to them, no matter that she was Aes Sedai.
Bloody ashes. He'd probably be tempted to ride in and save one of the Forsaken themselves if they were
trapped there.
And . . . maybe one was. Lanfear had fallen through that same portal. Burn him, what would he do if he
found her there? Would he really rescue her as well?
You're a fool, Matrim Cauthon. Not a hero. Just a fool.
"We'll get to Moiraine, Thorn," Mat said. "You have my word, burn me. We'll find her. But we have to
see the Band someplace safe, and we need information. Bayle Domon says he knows where the tower is,
but I won't be comfortable until we can go to some large city and sniff for rumors and stories about this
tower. Someone has to know something. Besides, we'll need supplies, and I doubt we'll find what we need
in these mountain villages. We need to reach Caemlyn if possible, though maybe we'll stop at Four Kings
on the way."
Thorn nodded, though Mat could see he chafed at leaving Moiraine trapped, being tortured or who knows
what. Thorn's brilliant blue eyes got a far-off look to them. Why did he care so much? What was Moiraine
to him but another Aes Sedai, one of those who had cost the life of Thorn's nephew?
"Burn it," Mat said. "We're not supposed to be thinking about things like this, Thorn! We're going to have
a good night of dice and laughter. There'll probably be some time for a song or two as well."
Thorn nodded, face growing lighter. He had his harp case strapped to the back of his horse; it would be
good to see him open it again. "You plan to try juggling for your supper again, apprentice?" Thom asked,
eyes twinkling.
"Better than trying to play that blasted flute," Mat grumbled. "Never was very good at that. Rand took to
it right fine, though, didn't he?"
Colors swirled in Mat's head, resolving to an image of Rand, sitting alone in a room by himself. He sat
splay-legged in a richly embroidered
THE TIPSY GELDING
403
shirt, a coat of black and red tossed aside and crumpled next to the log wall beside him. Rand had one
hand to his forehead as if trying to squeeze away the pain of a headache. His other was . . .
That arm ended in a stump. The first time Mat had seen that—a few weeks back—it had shocked him.
How had Rand lost the hand? The man barely seemed alive, propped up like that, unmoving. Though his
lips did seem to be moving, mumbling or muttering. Light! Mat thought. Burn you, what are you doing to
yourself?
Well, at least Mat wasn't near him. Count your fortunes in that, Mat told himself. Life hadn't been so easy
lately, but he could have been stuck near Rand. Sure, Rand was a friend. But Mat didn't mean to be there
when Rand went insane and killed everyone he knew. There was friendship, and then there was stupidity.
They'd fight together at the Last Battle, of course, no helping that. Mat just hoped to be on the other side
of that battlefield from any saidin-wielding madmen.
"Ah, Rand," Thorn said. "That boy could have made a life for himself as a gleeman, I warrant. Maybe
even a proper bard, if he'd started when he was younger."
Mat shook his head, dispelling the vision. Burn you, Rand. Leave me alone,
"Those were better days, weren't they, Mat?" Thorn smiled. "The three of us, traveling down the river
Arinelle."
"Myrddraal chasing us for reasons unknown," Mat added grimly. Those days hadn't been so easy either.
"Darkfriends trying to stab us in the back every time we turned around."
"Better than gholam and Forsaken trying to kill us."
"That's like saying you're grateful to have a noose around your neck instead of a sword in your gut."
"At least you can escape the noose, Mat." Thorn knuckled his long, white mustache. "Once the sword is
stuck into you, there's not much you can do about it."
Mat hesitated, then found himself laughing. He rubbed at the scarf around his neck. "I suppose you're
right at that, Thom. I suppose you're right. Well, for today why don't we forget about all of that? We'll go
back and pretend things are like they once were!"
"I don't know if that's possible, lad."
"Sure it is," Mat said stubbornly.
"Oh?" Thom asked, amused. "You're going to go back to thinking that old Thom Merrilin is the wisest,
most well traveled man you've ever
404
THE GATHERING STORM
known? You'll play the gawking peasant again, clinging to my coat every time we pass a village with
more than one inn in it?"
"Here now. I wasn't so bad as all that."
"I hasten to differ, Mat," Thom said, chuckling.
"I don't remember much." Mat scratched at his head again. "But I do recall that Rand and I did right well
for ourselves after we split up with you. We made it to Caemlyn, at least. Brought your flaming harp back
to you unharmed, didn't we?"
"I noticed a few nicks in the frame. . . ."
"Burn you, none of that!" Mat said, pointing at him. "Rand practically slept with that harp. Wouldn't think
of selling it, even when we were so hungry we'd have gnawed on our own boots if we hadn't needed them
to get to the next town." Those days were fuzzy to Mat, full of holes, like an iron bucket left too long to
rust. But he had pieced together some things.
Thom chuckled. "We can't go back, Mat. The Wheel has turned, for better or worse. And it will keep on
turning, as lights die and forests dim, storms call and skies break. Turn it will. The Wheel is not hope, and
the Wheel does not care, the Wheel simply is. But so long as it turns, folk may hope, folk may care. For
with light that fades, another will eventually grow, and each storm that rages must eventually die. As long
as the Wheel turns. As long as it turns. ..."
Mat guided Pips around a particularly deep cleft in the broken roadway. Ahead, Talmanes chatted with
several of their guards. "That has the sound of a song about it, Thom."
"Aye," Thom said, almost with a sigh. "An old one, forgotten by most. I've discovered three versions of it,
all with the same words, set to different tunes. I guess the area has me thinking of it; it's said that Dor-eille
herself penned the original poem."
"The area?" Mat said with surprise, glancing at the three-needle pines.
Thom nodded, thoughtful. "This road is old, Mat. Ancient. Probably was here before the Breaking.
Landmarks like this have a tendency to find their way into songs and stories. I think this area is what was
once called the Splintered Hills. If that's true, then we're in what was once Coremanda, right near the
Eagle's Reaches. I bet you if we climbed a few of those taller hills, we'd find old fortifications."
"And what does that have to do with Doreille?" Mat asked, uncomfortably. She'd been Queen of Aridhol.
THE TIPSY GELDING
405
"She visited here," Thorn said. "Penned several of her finest poems in the Eagle's Reaches."
Burn me, Mat thought. I remember. He remembered standing on the walls of a high fort, cold on the
mountaintop, looking down at a long, twisting roadway, broken and shattered, and an army of men with
violet pennants charging up the hillside into a rain of arrows. The Splintered Hills. A woman on the
balcony. The Queen herself.
He shivered, banishing the memory. Aridhol had been one of the ancient nations that had stood long ago,
when Manetheren had been a power. The capital of Aridhol had another name. Shadar Logoth.
Mat hadn't felt the pull of the ruby dagger in a very long time. He was nearly beginning to forget what it
had been like to be tied to it, if it was possible to forget such a thing. But sometimes he remembered that
ruby, red like his own blood. And the old lust, the old desire, would seep into him again . . .
Mat shook his head, forcing down those memories. Burn it, he was supposed to be enjoying himself!
"What a time we've had," Thom said idly. "I feel old these days, Mat, like a faded rug, hung out to dry in
the wind, hinting of the colors it once showed so vibrantly. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm any use to you
anymore. You hardly seem to need me."
"What? If course I need you, Thom!"
The aging gleeman eyed him. "The trouble with you, Mat, is that you're actually good at lying. Unlike
those other two boys."
"I mean it! Burn me, but I do. I suppose you could run off and tell stories and travel like you used to. But
things around here might run a lot less smoothly, and I sure would miss your wisdom. Burn me, but I
would. A man needs friends he can trust, and I'd trust you with my life any day."
"Why Matrim," Thom said, looking up, eyes glimmering with mirth, "bolstering a man's spirits when he's
down? Convincing him to stay and do what is important, rather than running off to seek adventure? That
sounds downright responsible. What's gotten into you?"
Mat grimaced. "Marriage, I guess. Burn me, but I'm not going to stop drinking or gambling!" Ahead,
Talmanes turned around and glanced at Mat, then rolled his eyes.
Thom laughed, watching Talmanes. "Well, lad, I didn't mean to get your spirits down. Just idle talk. I still
have a few things I can show this world. If I really can free Moiraine . . . well, we'll see. Besides,
somebody
406
THE GATHERING STORM
needs to be here to watch, then put this all to song, someday. There will be more than one ballad that
comes from all of this."
He turned, rifling through his saddlebags. "Ah!" he said, pulling out his patchwork gleeman's cloak. He
threw it on with a flourish.
"Well," Mat said, "when you write about us, you might find a few gold marks in it if you saw your way to
include a nice verse about Tal-manes. You know, something about how he has one eye that stares in
strange directions, and how he often carries this scent about him which reminds one of a goat pen."
"I heard that!" Talmanes called from ahead.
"I meant you to!" Mat called back.
Thorn just laughed, plucking at his cloak, arranging it for best display. "I can't promise anything." He
chuckled some more. "Though, if you don't mind, Mat, I think I'll separate from the rest of you once we
get into the village. A gleeman's ears may pick up information that won't be spoken in the presence of
soldiers."
"Information would be nice," Mat said, rubbing his chin. The trail turned up ahead; Vanin said they'd find
the village just beyond the turn. "I feel as though I've been traveling through a tunnel for months now,
with no sight or sound of the outside world. Burn me, but it would be nice to know where Rand is, if only
to know where not to go." The colors spun, showing him Rand—but the man was standing in a room with
no view of the outside, giving Mat no clue as to where he might be.
"Life's that tunnel most times, I'm afraid," Thorn said. "People expect a gleeman to bring information, so
we pull it out and brush it off for display—but much of the 'news' we tell is just another batch of stories,
in many cases less true than the ballads from a thousand years ago."
Mat nodded.
"And," Thom added, "I'll see if I can dig up hints for the incursion."
The Tower of Ghenjei. Mat shrugged. "We're more likely to find what we need in Four Kings or
Caemlyn."
"Yes, I know. But Olver made me promise to check. If you hadn't set Noal to keeping the boy distracted,
I'd expect to open our saddlebags and find him in there. He really wanted to come."
"A night dancing and gambling is no place for a boy," Mat muttered. "I just wish I could trust the men
back at camp not to corrupt him worse than a tavern would."
"Well, he stayed back quietly enough once Noal got out the board." Olver was convinced that if he played
Snakes and Foxes enough, he'd
THE TIPSY GELDING
407
pick out some secret strategy for defeating the Aelfinn and Eelfinn. "The lad still thinks he's coming with
us into the tower," Thorn said more quietly. "He knows he can't be one of the three, but he plans to wait
outside for us. Maybe burst in to save us if we don't come back soon enough. I don't want to be there
when he discovers the truth."
"I don't intend to be there myself," Mat said. Ahead, the trees broke wide into a small valley with green
pastures rising high along the hills to the sides. A town of several hundred buildings was nestled between
the slopes, a mountain stream running down the middle. The houses were of a deep gray stone, each with
a prominent chimney, most of which curled with smoke. The roofs were sloped to deal with what were
probably very snowy winters, though the only white still visible now was on distant peaks. Workers were
already busy on several of the roofs replacing winter-damaged shingles, and goats and sheep grazed the
hillsides, watched over by shepherd boys.
There were a few hours of light remaining, and other men worked on shopfronts and fences. Others
strolled through the streets of the village, no urgency in their gait. Overall, the little town had a relaxing
air of mixed industry and laziness.
Mat pulled up beside Talmanes and the soldiers. "That's a nice sight," Talmanes noted. "I was beginning
to think every town in the world was either falling apart, packed with refugees or under the thumb of
invaders. At least this one doesn't seem likely to vanish on us ..."
"Light send it so," Mat said, shivering, thinking of the town in Al-tara that had vanished. "Anyway, let's
hope they don't mind dealing with a few strangers." He eyed the soldiers; all five were Redarms, among
the best he had. "Three of you five, go with the Aes Sedai. I suspect that they'll want to stay at a different
inn from myself. We'll meet up in the morning."
The soldiers saluted, and Joline sniffed as she passed on her horse, pointedly not looking at Mat. She and
the others headed down the incline in a little cluster, three of Mat's soldiers following.
"That looks like an inn there," Thorn said, pointing toward a larger building on the eastern side of the
village. "You'll find me there." He waved, then kicked his mount into a trot and rode on ahead, gleeman's
cloak streaming. Arriving first would give him the best chance at a dramatic entrance.
Mat glanced at Talmanes, who shrugged. The two of them made their way down the slope with two
soldiers as an escort. Because of the
408
THE GATHERING STORM
bend in the road, they were approaching from the southwest. To the northeast of the village, the ancient
roadway continued. It looked strange to have such a large road leading past a village like this, even if that
road was old and broken. Master Roidelle claimed that it would lead them straight up into Andor. It was
too uneven to be used as a major highway, and the direction it led no longer passed major cities, so it had
been forgotten. Mat blessed their luck in finding it, though. The main passages into Murandy had been
crowded with Seanchan.
According to Roidelle's maps, Hinderstap specialized in producing goat's cheese and mutton for the
various towns and manor lands in the region. The villagers should be used to outsiders. Indeed, several
boys came running from the fields the moment they spotted Thorn and his gleeman's cloak. He'd make a
stir, but a familiar one. The Aes Sedai, though, would be memorable.
Ah, well, he thought as he and Talmanes rode down the grass-lined road. He would retain his good humor;
this time, he would not let the Aes Sedai ruin it.
By the time Mat and Talmanes reached the village, Thorn had already gathered a small crowd. He stood
upright on his saddle and juggled three colored balls in his right hand while talking of his travels in the
south. The villagers here wore vests and green cloaks of a deep, velvety cloth. They looked warm, though
upon closer inspection, Mat noticed that many of them—cloaks, vests and trousers—had been torn, and
carefully mended.
Another group of people, mostly women, had gathered around the Aes Sedai. Good; Mat had
half-expected the villagers to be frightened. One of those standing at the side of Thorn's group eyed Mat
and Talmanes appraisingly. He was a sturdy fellow, with thick arms and linen sleeves that were rolled to
the elbows despite the chill spring air. His arms curled with dark hair that matched his beard and the locks
on his head.
"You have the look of a lord about you," the man said, approaching Mat.
"He's a pr—" Talmanes began before Mat cut him off hastily.
"I suppose I do at that," Mat said, keeping an eye on Talmanes.
"I'm Barlden, the mayor here," the man said, folding his arms. "You're welcome to come and trade. Be
aware that we don't have much to spare."
"Surely you at least have some cheese," Talmanes said. "That's what you produce, isn't it?"
"All that hasn't molded or spoiled is needed for our custom," mayor
THE TIPSY GELDING
409
Barlden said. "That's just the way of things, these days." He hesitated. "But if you have cloth or clothing
you'll trade, we might be able to scrape something up to feed you for the day."
Feed us for a day? Mat thought. All eleven of us? He'd need to bring a wagonload back at least, not to
mention the ale he'd promised his men.
"You still need to hear about the curfew. Trade, warm yourselves by the hearths for a time, but know that
all outsiders must be out of the town by nightfall."
Mat glanced up at the cloud-covered sky. "But that's barely three hours away!"
"Those are our rules," Barlden said curtly.
"It's ridiculous," Joline said, turning away from the village women. She nudged her horse a little closer to
Mat and Talmanes, her Warders— as always—shadowing her. "Master Barlden, we cannot agree to this
foolish prohibition. I understand your hesitation during these dangerous times, but surely you can see that
your rules should not apply here."
The man kept his arms folded and said nothing.
Joline pursed her lips, rearranging her hands on her reins so that her great serpent ring was prominently
visible. "Does the symbol of the White Tower mean so little these days?"
"We respect the White Tower." Barlden looked at Mat. He was wise. Meeting the gaze of an Aes Sedai
tended to make one's resolve weaken. "But our rules are strict, my Lady. I'm sorry."
Joline sniffed. "I suspect that your innkeepers are less than satisfied with this requirement. How are they
to make ends meet if they can't rent rooms to travelers?"
"The inns are compensated," the mayor said gruffly. "Three hours. Do your business and be on your way.
We mean to be friendly to all who pass our way, but we can't see our rules broken." With that, he turned
and left. As he walked away, he was joined by a small group of burly men, several carrying axes. Not
threateningly. Casually, as if they'd been out chopping wood, and just happened to be walking through
town. Together. In the same direction as the mayor.
"I should say this is quite the welcome," Talmanes muttered.
Mat nodded. At that moment, the dice started rattling in his head. Burn it! He decided to ignore them.
They were never any help anyway. "Let's go find a tavern," he said, heeling Pips forward.
"Still determined to make a night of it, eh?" Talmanes said, smiling as he joined Mat.
410
THE GATHERING STORM
"We'll see," Mat said, listening to those dice despite himself. "We'll see."
Mat spotted three inns on his initial ride through the village. There was one at the end of the main
thoroughfare, and it had two bright lanterns burning out front, even though night hadn't yet fallen. Those
whitewashed walls and clean glass windows would draw the Aes Sedai like moths to a flame. That would
be the inn for traveling merchants and dignitaries unfortunate enough to find themselves in these hills.
But outsiders couldn't stay the night now. How long had that prohibition been in place? How did these
inns maintain themselves? They could still provide a bath and meal, but without renting rooms. . . .
Mat didn't buy the mayor's comment about inns being "compensated." If they weren't doing anything
useful for the village, why pay them? It was just plain odd.
Anyway, Mat didn't head for the nice inn, nor the one Thorn had chosen. That one wasn't on the main
road, but was on a wide street just to the northeast. It would serve the average visitor, respectable men and
women who didn't like to spend what they didn't have to. The building was well cared for; the beds would
be clean, and the meals satisfactory. The locals would visit for drinks on occasion, mostly when they felt
that their wives were keeping a close eye on them.
The last inn would have been the most difficult to find, had Mat not known where to look for it. It was
three streets out from the center, in the back west corner of the village. No sign hung out front; just a
wooden board carved with what looked like a drunken horse that sat inside one of the windows. None of
those windows had glass.
Light and laughter came from inside. Most outsiders would have been made uncomfortable by the lack of
an inviting sign and street lanterns near this inn. It was really more of a tavern than an inn; Mat doubted if
it had ever held anything other than a few pallets in the back that one could rent for a copper. This was the
place for working locals to relax. With evening approaching, many would have already made their way
here. It was a place for community and for relaxation, a place for smoking a pinch of tabac with your
friends. And for throwing a few games of dice.
Mat smiled and dismounted, then hitched Pips to the post outside.
Talmanes sighed. "You realize that they probably water their drinks."
"Then we'll have to order twice as many," Mat said, undoing a few bags of coins from his saddle and
stuffing them in pockets inside his coat. He gestured for his soldiers to stay and guard the horses. The
pack aniTHE TIPSY GELDING
411
mal carried a coin chest. It contained Mat's personal stash: he wouldn't risk the Band's wages on
gambling.
"All right, then," Talmanes said. "But you realize that I'm going to make certain that you and I go to a
proper tavern once we reach Four Kings. I'll have you educated yet, Mat. You're a prince now. You'll
need—"
Mat held up a hand, cutting Talmanes off. Then he pointed at the post. Talmanes sighed again and slid
free of the saddle, then hitched his horse. Mat stepped up to the tavern door, took a deep breath, and
entered.
Men crowded around tables, their cloaks draped over chairs or hung on pegs, their ripped and resewn
vests unbuttoned, their sleeves rolled up. Why did people here wear clothing that was once so nice, yet
now torn and patched? They had plenty of sheep, and should therefore have wool to spare.
Mat ignored the oddity for the moment. The men in this place played at dice, drank mugs of ale off of
sticky tables, and slapped at the backsides of passing barmaids. They seemed exhausted, many of their
eyes drooping with fatigue. But that was to be expected after a day's work. Despite the tired eyes, there
was an almost palpable chatter in the room, voices overlapping one another in low, rumbling murmurs. A
few people looked up as Mat entered, and some of them frowned at his nice clothing, but most people
paid him no heed.
Talmanes followed reluctantly, but he wasn't the type of nobleman who minded rubbing shoulders with
those of lower station. He'd visited his share of seedy taverns in his time, even if he had taken to
complaining about Mat's choices. And so Talmanes was as quick as Mat to pull a chair up to a table
where a few men already sat. Mat smiled broadly and flashed gold, tossing it to the passing barmaid and
demanding some drinks. That got some attention, both from those around the table and from Talmanes.
"What are you doing," Talmanes hissed, leaning toward Mat. "You want to see us slit open the moment
we stumble out of here?"
Mat just smiled. One of the nearby tables had a dice game going. Looked like Cat's Paw—or, at least,
that's what it had been called the night Mat had first been taught it. They called it Third Gem in Ebou Dar,
and he'd heard it called Feathers Aloft in Cairhien. It was the perfect game for his purposes. There was
only one dicer in the game, with the crowd of onlookers betting against or for his tosses.
Mat took a deep breath, then pulled his chair over to the table, snapping a gold crown onto the wood
directly in the center of a wet ring of
412
THE GATHERING STORM
ale made by the bottom of a mug, now held by a short fellow who'd lost most of his mousy hair, but what
he did have hung long down around his collar. He almost choked on his ale.
"Care if I make a throw?" Mat said to the table's occupants.
"I ... don't know if we can match that," said a man with a short black beard. "M'lord," he added belatedly.
"My gold against your silver," Mat said lightly. "I haven't had a good game of dice in ages."
Talmanes pulled his chair over, interested. He'd seen Mat do this before, putting down gold coins and
winning silvers. Mat's luck made up for the difference, and he always came out far ahead. Sometimes he
could come out ahead playing gold for coppers. That didn't make him much money. It only took so long
before the men involved either ran out of coin or decided to stop playing. And Mat would be left with a
handful of silvers and nobody to dice with.
That wouldn't help. The army had plenty of coin. It needed food, and so it was time to try something
different. Several of the men set down silver coins. Mat shook the dice in his hands, then tossed.
Blessedly, the dice came up with one showing a single pip and the other showing two. An instant loss.
Talmanes blinked, and the men around the table glanced at Mat, looking chagrined—as if embarrassed to
have bet against a lord who obviously wasn't expecting to lose. That was an easy way to get oneself in
trouble.
"Well look at that," Mat said. "Guess you win. It's yours." He rolled the gold crown to the center of the
table, to be split among the men who had bet against him, as per the rules.
"How about another?" Mat said, slapping down two gold crowns. There were more takers this time.
Again, he threw and lost, nearly sending Talmanes into a choking fit. Mat had lost throws before—it
happened, even to him. But two throws in a row?
He sent the two crowns rolling, and then he pulled out four. Talmanes placed a hand on his arm. "No
offense, Mat," the man said in a quiet voice. "But maybe you should stop. Everyone has an off night. Let's
finish our drinks and go buy what supplies we can before night falls."
Mat just smiled and watched as the bets piled up against his four coins. He had to lay down a fifth, since
so many people wanted in on the toss. He ignored Talmanes and threw, losing yet again. Talmanes
groaned,
THE TIPSY GELDING
413
then reached over and took a mug from the serving girl, who had finally arrived to fill Mat's order.
"Don't look so grim," Mat said softly, hefting the pouch in his hand as he reached for his own mug. "This
is what I wanted."
Talmanes raised an eyebrow, lowering his mug.
Mat said, "I can lose when I want to, if it's for the best."
"How can losing be for the best?" Talmanes asked, watching the men argue about how to divide Mat's
gold.
"Wait.' Mat took a slurp of ale. It was as watered-down as Talmanes had feared. Mat turned back to the
table, counting out a few more gold coins.
As the time passed, more and more people began gathering around the table. Mat made sure to win a few
tosses—just as he had to lose a bit when spending a night winning, he didn't want to arouse any
suspicions about his losing streak. Yet bit by bit, the coins in his pouches ended up in the hands of the
men playing against him. Before long, all was silent in the tavern, men crowding around Mat and waiting
their turn to bet against him. Sons and friends had run to grab their fathers and cousins, dragging them to
The Tipsy Gelding—as the inn was called.
At one point—during a break in the throws while Mat was waiting for another mug of ale—Talmanes
pulled him aside. "I don't like this, Mat," the wiry man said in a low voice, leaning in. Sweat had long
since streaked the powder on his shaved forehead, and he'd wiped it away, leaving the skin bare.
"I told you." Mat took a swig of watery ale. "I know what I'm doing." Men cheered to the side as one of
them drank three mugs, one after another. The air smelt of sweat and muddy ale, spilled to the wood floor
then trampled by the boots of those arriving from the pastures.
"Not that," Talmanes said, glancing at the cheering men. "You can waste your coin if you want, so long as
you spare a few coins to buy me a drink now and then. That's not what's bothering me, not anymore."
Mat frowned. "What?"
"Something feels wrong about these folk, Mat." Talmanes spoke very softly, glancing over his shoulder.
"While you've been playing, I've been talking to them. They don't care about the world. The Dragon
Reborn, the Seanchan, nothing. Not a care."
"So?" Mat said. "They're simple folk."
"Simple folk should worry even more" Talmanes said. "They're trapped
414
THE GATHERING STORM
here between gathering armies. But these just shrug when I talk, then drink some more. It's as if they're . .
. they're too focused on their revelry. As if it's all that matters to them."
"Then they're perfect," Mat said.
"It'll be dark soon," Talmanes said, glancing at the window. "We've used an hour, probably more. Maybe
we should—"
At that moment, the door the inn slammed open and the burly mayor entered, accompanied by the men
who had joined him earlier, although they'd left their axes behind. They didn't look pleased to find half
the village inside the tavern gambling with Mat.
"Mat," Talmanes began again.
Mat raised a hand, cutting him off. "This is what we've been waiting for."
"It is?" Talmanes asked.
Mat turned back to the dicing table, smiling. He'd gone through most of his bags of coins, but he had
enough for a few more throws—not counting what he'd brought along outside, of course. He picked up
the dice and counted out some gold crowns, and the crowd began to throw down coins of their
own—many of which, by now, were gold ones they'd won from Mat.
He tossed and lost, causing a roar of excitement from those watching. Barlden looked as if he wanted to
toss Mat out—it was getting late, and sunset couldn't be far off—but the man hesitated when he saw Mat
pull out another handful of gold coins. Greed nibbled every man, and strict "rules" could be bent if
opportunity walked past and winked suggestively enough.
Mat tossed again, and lost. More roars. The mayor folded his arms.
Mat reached into his pouch and found nothing but air. The men around him looked crestfallen, and one
called for a round of drinks to "help the poor young lord forget about his luck."
Not bloody likely, Mat thought, covering a smile. He stood up, raising his hands. "I see it's getting late,"
he said to the room.
"Too late," Barlden interjected, pushing past a few smelly goatherds with fur-collared cloaks. "You
should be going, outlander. Don't be thinking I'll make these men give back what you lost to them fairly,
either."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Mat said, slurring his words just a tad. "Harnan and Delarn!" he bellowed.
"Bring in the chest!"
The two soldiers from outside hurried in a moment later, bearing the
THE TIPSY GELDING
415
small wooden chest from the packhorse. The tavern grew silent as the soldier carried it over to the table
and set it down. Mat fished out the key, wobbling slightly, then unlocked the lid and revealed the
contents.
Gold. A lot of it. Practically all he had left of his personal coin. "There's time for one more throw," Mat
said to a stunned room. "Any takers?"
Men began to toss down coins until the pile contained most of what Mat had lost. It wasn't nearly enough
to match what was in his chest. He looked it over, tapping his chin. "That's not going to be enough,
friends. I'll take a bad bet, but if I've only got one more throw tonight, I want a chance of walking out of
here with something."
"It's all we've got," one of the men said, amid a few calls for Mat to go ahead and toss anyway.
Mat sighed, then closed the lid to the chest. "No," he said. Even Barlden was watching with a gleam in his
eyes. "Unless." Mat paused. "I came here for supplies. I guess I'd take barter. You can keep the coins you
won, but I'll bet this chest for supplies. Foodstuffs for my men, a few casks of ale. A cart to carry it on."
"There isn't enough time." Barlden glanced at the darkening windows.
"Surely there is," Mat said, leaning forward. "I'll leave after this toss. You have my word on it."
"We don't bend rules here," the mayor said. "The price is too high."
Mat expected calls from the betting men, challenging the mayor, begging him to make an exception. But
there were none. Mat felt a sudden spike of fear. After all of that losing ... if they kicked him out anyway.
...
Desperate, he pulled open the top of the chest again, revealing the gold coins inside.
"I'll give you the ale," the innkeeper said suddenly. "And Mardry, you've got a wagon and team. It's only
a street down."
"Yes," said Mardry, a bluff-faced man with short dark hair. "I'll bet that."
Men began to call that they could offer food—grain from their pantries, potatoes from their cellars. Mat
looked to the mayor. "There's still got to be what, half an hour until nightfall? Why don't we see what they
can gather? The village store can have a piece of this too, if I lose. I'll bet you could use the extra coin,
what with the winter we had."
Barlden hesitated, then nodded, still watching the chest of coins.
416
THE GATHERING STORM
Men whooped and ran about, fetching the wagon, rolling out the ale. More than a few galloped off for
their homes or the village store. Mat watched them go, waiting in the quickly emptying tavern room.
"I see what you're doing," the mayor said to Mat. He didn't seem to be in a rush to gather anything.
Mat turned toward him, questioningly.
"I won't have you cheating us with a miracle win at the end of the evening." Barlden folded his arms.
"You'll use my dice. And you'll move nice and slow as you toss. I know you lost many games here as the
men report, but I suspect that if we search you, we'll find a couple of sets of dice hidden on your person."
"You're welcome to give me a search," Mat said, raising his arms to the side.
Barlden hesitated. "You will have thrown them away, of course," he finally said. "It's a fine scheme,
dressing like a lord, loading dice so they make you lose instead of win. Never heard of a man bold enough
to throw away gold like that on fake dice."
"If you're so certain that I'm cheating," Mat said, "then why go through with this?"
"Because I know how to stop you," the mayor replied. "Like I said, you'll use my dice on this throw." He
hesitated, then smiled, grabbing a pair of dice off the table that Mat had been using. He tossed them. They
came up a one and a two. He tossed them again, and got the same result.
"Better yet." The mayor smiled deeply. "You'll use these. In fact . . . I'll make the throw for you."
Barlden's face in the dim light took on a decidedly sinister cast.
Mat felt a stab of panic.
Talmanes took his arm. "All right, Mat," he said. "I think we should go."
Mat held up a hand. Would his luck work if someone else threw? Sometimes it worked to prevent him
from being wounded in combat. He was sure of that. Wasn't he?
"Go ahead," he said to Barlden.
The man looked shocked.
"You can make the throw," Mat said. "But it counts the same as if I'd tossed. A winning hand, and I walk
away with everything. A losing hand, and I'll be on my way with my hat and my horse, and you can keep
the bloody chest. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
Mat stuck out his hand for a shake, but the mayor turned away, holdTHE TIPSY GELDING
417
ing the dice in his hand. "No," he said. "You'll get no chance to swap these dice, traveler. Let's just go out
front and wait. And you keep your distance."
They did as he said, leaving the muggy, ale-soaked stench of the tavern for the clear street outside. Mat's
soldiers brought the chest. Barlden demanded that the chest remain open so that it couldn't be switched.
One of his thugs poked around inside it, biting the coins, making certain that it really was full and that the
coins were authentic. Mat waited, leaning against the door as a wagon rolled up, and men from inside the
tavern began rolling casks of ale onto its bed.
The sun was barely a haze of light on the horizon, behind those blasted clouds. As Mat waited, he saw the
mayor grow more and more anxious. Blood and bloody ashes, the man was a stickler for his rules! Well,
Mat would show him, and all of them. He'd show them. . . .
Show them what? That he couldn't be beaten? What did that prove? As Mat waited, the cart piled higher
and higher with foodstuffs, and he began to feel a strange sense of guilt.
I'm not doing anything wrong, he thought. I've got to feed my men, don't I? These men are betting fair, and I'm
betting fair. No loaded dice. No cheating.
Except his luck. Well, his luck was his own—just as every man's luck was his own. Some men were born
with a talent for music, and they became bards and gleemen. Who begrudged them earning coin with
what the Creator gave them? Mat had luck, and so he used it. There was nothing wrong with that.
Still, as the men came back into the inn, he started to see what it was that Talmanes had noticed. There
was an edge of desperation to these men. Had they been too eager to gamble? Had they been foolhardy
with their betting? What was that look in their eyes, a look that Mat had mistaken for weariness? Had they
been drinking to celebrate the end of the day, or had they been drinking to banish that haunted cast in
their eyes?
"Maybe you were right," Mat said to Talmanes, who was watching the sun with almost as much anxiety
as the mayor. Its last light was dusting the tops of the peaked homes, coloring the tan tile a deeper orange.
The sunset was a blaze behind the clouds.
"We can go, then?" the Talmanes asked.
"No," Mat said. "We're staying."
And the dice stopped rattling in his head. It was so sudden, the silence so unexpected, that he froze. It was
enough to make him think he'd made the wrong decision.
418
THE GATHERING STORM
"Burn me, we're staying," he repeated. "I've never backed down from a bet before, and I don't plan to
now."
A group of riders returned, bearing sacks of grain on their horses. It was amazing what a little coin could
do for motivation. As more riders arrived, a young boy came trotting up the road. "Mayor," he said,
tugging on Barlden's purple vest. That vest bore a crisscross of patched rips across the front. "Mother says
that the outlander women aren't done bathing. She's trying to hurry them, but. . . ."
The mayor tensed. He glanced at Mat angrily.
Mat snorted. "Don't think I can do anything to hurry that lot," he said. "If I were to go rush them, they'd
likely dig in like mules and take twice as long. Let someone else bloody have a turn dealing with them."
Talmanes kept glancing at the lengthening shadows along the road. "Burn me," he muttered. "If those
ghosts start appearing again, Mat. . . ."
"This is something else," Mat said as the newcomers threw their grain onto the wagon. "It feels different."
The wagon was already loaded high with foodstuffs; a good haul to have purchased from a village this
size. It was just what the Band needed, enough to nudge them along, keep them fed until they reached the
next town. That food wasn't worth the gold in the coffer, of course, but it was about equal to what he'd
lost dicing inside, particularly with the wagon and horses thrown in. They were good draft animals,
sturdy, well cared for from the look of coat and hoof.
Mat opened his mouth to say it was enough, then hesitated as he noticed that the mayor was talking
quietly with a group of men. There were six of them, their vests drab and ragged, their black hair
unkempt. One was gesturing toward Mat and holding what looked to be a sheet of paper in his hand.
Barlden shook his head, but the man with the paper gestured more insistently.
"Here now," Mat said softly. "What's this?"
"Mat, the sun . . ." Talmanes said.
The mayor pointed sharply, and the ragged men sidled away. The men who had brought the food were
crowding around the dimming street, keeping to the center of it. Most were looking toward the horizon.
"Mayor," Mat called. "That's good enough. Make the throw!"
Barlden hesitated, glancing at him, then looked down at the dice in his hand almost as if he'd forgotten
them. The men around him nodded anxiously, and so he raised his hand in a fist, rattling the dice. The
mayor looked across the street to meet Mat's eyes, then threw the dice onto the
THE TIPSY GELDING
419
ground between them. They seemed too loud, a tiny rattling thunderstorm, like bones cracking against one
another.
Mat held his breath. It had been a long while since he'd had reason to worry about a toss of the dice. He
leaned down, watching the white cubes tumble against the dirt. How would his luck react to someone else
throwing?
The dice came to a stop. A pair of fours. An outright winning throw. Mat released a long, relieved breath,
though he felt a trickle of sweat down his temple.
"Mat . . ." Talmanes said softly, making him look up. The men standing on the road didn't look so
pleased. Several of them cheered in excitement until their friends explained that a winning throw from the
mayor meant that Mat would take the prize. The crowd grew tense. Mat met Barlden's eyes.
"Go," the burly man said, gesturing in disgust toward Mat and turning away. "Take your spoils and leave
this place. Never return."
"Well," Mat said, relaxing. "Thank you kindly for the game, then. We—"
"GO!" the mayor bellowed. He looked at the last slivers of sunlight on the horizon, then cursed and began
waving for the men to enter The Tipsy Gelding. Some lingered, glancing at Mat with shock or hostility,
but the mayor's urgings soon bullied them into the low-roofed inn. He pulled the door shut and left Mat,
Talmanes and the two soldiers standing alone on the street.
It suddenly seemed eerily quiet. There wasn't a villager on the street. Shouldn't there be some noise from
inside the tavern, at least? Some clinking of mugs, some grumbling about the lost wager?
"Well," Mat said, voice echoing against silent housefronts, "I guess that's that." He walked over to Pips,
calming the horse, who had begun to shuffle nervously. "Now, see, I told you, Talmanes. Nothing to be
worried about at all."
And that's when the screaming began.
CHAPTER 28
Night in Hinderstap
B
urn you, Mat!" Talmanes said, yanking his sword free from the gut of a twitching villager. Talmanes
almost never swore. "Burn you twice over and once again!" "Me?" Mat snapped, spinning, his ashandarei
flashing as he neatly hamstrung two men in bright green vests. They fell to the packed earthen street, eyes
wide with rage as they sputtered and growled. "Me? I'm not the one trying to kill you, Talmanes. Blame
them\"
Talmanes managed to pull himself into his saddle. "They told us to leave!"
"Yes," Mat said, grabbing Pips' reigns and pulling the horse away from The Tipsy Gelding. "And now
they're trying to kill us. I can't rightly be blamed for their unsociable behavior!" Howls, screams, and yells
rose from all across the village. Some were angry, some were terrified, others were agonized.
More and more men piled out of the tavern, each one grunting and yelling, each one trying his best to kill
every person around him. Some of them came for Mat, Talmanes or Mat's Redarms. But many just
attacked their companions, hands ripping at skin, nails tearing gouges in faces. They fought with a primal
lack of skill, and only a few thought to pick up rocks, mugs or lengths of wood as weapons.
420
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
421
This was far more than a simple bar fight. These men were trying to kill each other. Already there were a
half-dozen corpses or near-corpses on the street, and from what Mat could see of the inside of the inn, the
fighting was equally brutal inside.
Mat tried to edge closer to the wagon with its load of food, Pips clopping alongside him. His chest of gold
still lay on the street. The fighting men ignored both food and coin, concentrating on one another.
Talmanes, as well as Harnan and Delarn—his two soldiers—backed away with him, nervously pulling
their own mounts. A group of raving men soon descended on the two villagers Mat had hamstrung,
beating their heads against the ground over and over until they stopped moving. Then the pack looked up
at Mat and his men, bloodlust clouding their eyes. It was an incongruous expression on the clean faces of
men in neat vests and combed hair.
"Blood and bloody ashes," Mat said, swinging into his saddle. "Mount up!"
Harnan and Delarn needed no further instruction. They cursed, sheathing swords and swinging into
saddles. The pack of villagers surged forward, but Mat and Talmanes cut off the attack. Mat tried to go
for wounding blows only, but the villagers were deceptively strong and fast, and he found himself
fighting just to keep them from pulling him out of the saddle. He cursed, reluctantly beginning to wield
killing blows, taking two of the men with sweeps to the neck. Pips kicked out and knocked another to the
ground with a hoof to the head. In a few moments, Harnan and Delarn joined the fight.
The villagers didn't back away. They kept fighting in a frenzy until the entire pack of eight had dropped.
Mat's soldiers fought with wide-eyed terror, and Mat didn't blame them. It was flaming eerie, seeing
common villagers react like this! There didn't seem to be an ounce of humanity left in them. They spoke
only in grunts, hisses, and screams, their faces painted with anger and bloodlust. Now the other
villagers—those not directly attacking Mat's men—started forming into packs, slaughtering the groups
smaller than themselves by bludgeoning them, clawing them, biting them. It was unnerving.
As Mat watched, a body broke through one of the tavern window frames. The corpse rolled to the ground,
neck broken. On the other side, Barlden stood with wild, nearly inhuman eyes. He screamed into the
night, then saw Mat and—for just a moment—seemed to show a hint of
422
THE GATHERING STORM
recognition. Then it was gone, and the mayor bellowed again, running forward to leap through the broken
window and attack a pair of men whose backs were turned.
"Move!" Mat said, rearing Pips as another pack of villagers saw him.
"The gold!" Talmanes said.
"Burn the gold!" Mat said. "We can win more, and that food isn't worth our lives. Go!"
Talmanes and the soldiers turned their mounts and galloped down the street, Mat kicking Pips to join
them, leaving the gold and wagon behind. It wasn't worth their lives—if possible, he'd bring the army in
on the morrow to recover it. But they had to survive first.
They galloped for a short time, and Mat slowed them at the next corner, holding up a hand. He glanced
over his shoulder. The villagers were still coming, but the gallop had left them behind for now.
"I'm still blaming you," Talmanes said.
"I thought you liked fighting," Mat said.
"I like some fights," Talmanes said. "On the battlefield or a nice bar fight. This . . . this is insane." The
pack of villagers behind had fallen to all fours and were moving in a strange lope. Talmanes shivered
visibly.
There was barely enough light to see by. Now that the sun had set, those mountains and the gray clouds
blocked what light remained. Lanterns lined many of the streets, but it didn't look as if anyone would be
lighting them.
"Mat, they're gaining," Talmanes said, sword held at the ready.
"This isn't just about our wager," Mat said, listening to the screams and shouts. They came from all
around the village. Down a side road, a couple of struggling bodies burst through the upper window of a
house. They were women, clawing at each other as they fell, crashing to the ground with a sickening thud.
They stopped moving.
"Come on," Mat said, turning Pips. "We've got to find Thom and the women." They galloped down a side
street that would intersect with the main thoroughfare, passing packs of men and women fighting in the
gutters. A fat man with bloodied cheeks stumbled into the road, and Mat reluctantly rode him down.
There were too many people fighting at the sides for him to risk leading his men around the poor fool.
Mat even saw children fighting, biting at the legs of those larger than they, throttling those their own age.
"The entire bloody town has gone insane," Mat muttered grimly as the four of them barreled onto the
main street and turned toward the fine
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
423
inn. They'd pick up the Aes Sedai, then swing out eastward for Thorn, as his inn was the most distant.
Unfortunately, the main street was worse than the one Mat had left. It was almost completely dark now.
Indeed, it seemed to him that the darkness had come too quickly here. Unnaturally swift. The road's
length squirmed with shadows, figures battling, screeching, struggling in the deepening gloom. In that
darkness, the fights looked at times to be solid, single creatures—horrific monstrosities with a dozen
waving limbs and a hundred mouths to scream from the blackness.
Mat spurred Pips forward. There was nothing to do but charge down the middle of it.
"Light," Talmanes yelled as they galloped toward the inn. "Light!"
Mat gritted his teeth and leaned forward on Pips, spear held close to his side as he rode through the
nightmare. Roars shook the darkness and bodies rolled across the street. Mat shivered at the horror of it,
cursing under his breath. The night itself seemed to be trying to smother them, to strangle them, and to
spawn beasts of blackness and murder.
Pips and the other horses were well trained, and the four of them charged straight down the street. Mat
narrowly avoided being pulled from the saddle as dark forms leapt for his legs, trying to yank him free.
They screamed and hissed, like legions of the drowned trying to pull him down into a deep, unearthly sea.
Beside Mat, Delarn s horse suddenly pulled to a halt, then, as a mass of black figures leaped in front of it,
the gelding reared in panic, throwing Delarn from his saddle.
Mat reined in Pips, turning at the man's scream, which was somehow more distinct and more human than
the howls around them.
"Mat!" Talmanes yelled, charging past. "Keep going! We can't stop!"
No, Mat thought, shoving down his panic. No, I'm not leaving someone to this. He took a deep breath and
ignored Talmanes, kicking Pips back toward the black clot of bodies where Delarn had fallen. Sweat
sprayed from his forehead, chilled by the wind of the gallop. Moans, screams, and hisses all around him
seemed to descend on him.
Mat roared and threw himself from Pips' back—he couldn't bring his mount in without risking trampling
the man he wanted to save. He hated fighting in darkness, he bloody hated it. He attacked those dark
figures, whose faces he couldn't see save for an occasional flash of teeth or insane eyes reflecting the
dying light. It reminded him, briefly, of another night, killing Shadowspawn in the dark. Save these
figures he fought didn't
424
THE GATHERING STORM
have the grace of a Myrddraal. They didn't even have the coordination of Trollocs.
For a moment, it seemed Mat fought the shadows themselves— shadows made by sputtering firelight,
random and uncoordinated, yet all the more deadly for his inability to anticipate them. He narrowly
escaped getting his skull crushed by attacks that made no sense. During the day, those attacks would have
been laughable, but from this darkened pack of men—and women—who didn't care what they hit or who
they hurt, the attacks were overwhelming. Mat found himself fighting just to stay alive, spinning his
ashandarei in wide arcs, using it to trip as often as he used it to kill. If something moved in the darkness,
he struck. How in the light was he going to find Delarn in this!
A shadow moved just a short distance away, and Mat instantly recognized a sword-form. Rat Gnawing
the Grain? A villager wouldn't know that. Good man!
Mat spun toward that shadow, slashing two other shadows across the chest, earning grunts and howls of
pain. Delarn's figure fell beneath a pile of several others, and Mat bellowed in denial, leaping across a
fallen body and landing with his spear descending in a broad sweep. Shadows bled where he struck, the
blood just another patch of darkness, and Mat used the butt of his weapon to beat back another. He
reached down, pulling one of the shadows to its feet, and heard a muttered curse. It was Delarn.
"Come on," Mat said, pulling the man toward Pips, who stood firm, snorting, in the darkness. The
attacking men seemed to ignore animals, which was fortunate. Mat shoved the stumbling Delarn toward
the horse, then turned and engaged the pack he'd known would chase after him. Again, Mat danced with
the darkness, striking again and again, trying to disengage so that he could climb into the saddle. He
risked a glance over his shoulder, and found that Delarn had managed to get onto Pips' back—but the
soldier sat slumped, a huddled mound. How badly was he wounded? He barely seemed able to keep
himself upright. Blood and bloody ashes!
Mat turned back to the attackers, spinning his spear, trying to force them back. But they didn't care about
being wounded, they didn't care how dangerous Mat was. They just kept coming! Surrounding him.
Coming at him from every side. Bloody ashes! He twisted just in time to see a dark shape rush him from
behind.
Something flashed in the night, reflecting some very distant light.
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
425
The dark figure behind Mat slumped to the ground. Another flash, and one of the ones in front of Mat fell.
Suddenly, a figure on a white horse rushed past, and another knife flashed in the air, dropping a third
man.
"Thorn!" Mat called, recognizing the cloak.
"Get on your horse!" Thorn's voice called back. "I'm running out of knives!"
Mat swept out with his spear, dropping two more villagers, then dashed forward and leaped into his
saddle, trusting Thorn to cover his retreat. Indeed, he heard a few cries of pain from behind. A moment
later, a thundering sound on the road announced the imminent approach of horses. Mat pulled himself into
his saddle as the creatures tore through the black morass, scattering the villagers.
"Mat, you fool!" Talmanes shouted from one of the horses, barely visible as a silhouette against the night.
Mat smiled gratefully at Talmanes, turning Pips, and caught Delarn as the man almost slid free. The
Redarm was alive, for he struggled weakly, but there was a slick wet patch at his side. Mat held the man
in front of him, ignoring the reins in the darkness and controlling Pips with a quick twist of the knees. He
didn't know horseback battle commands himself, but those blasted memories did, and so he'd trained Pips
to obey.
Thorn galloped past, and Mat turned Pips to follow, steadying Delarn with one hand and carrying his
spear in the other. Talmanes and Harnan rode to either side of him, charging down the corridor of
madness toward the inn at the end.
"Come on, man," Mat whispered to Delarn. "Hang on. The Aes Sedai are just ahead. They'll fix you up."
Delarn whispered something back.
Mat leaned forward. "What was that?"
". . . and toss the dice until we fly," Delarn whispered. "To dance with Jak o' the Shadows. . . ."
"Great," Mat muttered. There were lights ahead, and he could see they were coming from the inn. Perhaps
they'd find one place in this flaming village where the people's brains hadn't turned inside out.
But no. Those bursts of light were familiar. Balls of fire, flashing in the upper-story windows of the inn.
"Well," Talmanes noted from his left, "looks like the Aes Sedai still live. That's something, at least."
Figures clustered around the front of the inn, fighting in the darkness, their forms periodically lit from
above by the flashes in the windows.
426
THE GATHERING STORM
"Round to the back," Thorn suggested.
"Go," Mat said to them, charging past the fighting figures. Tal-manes, Thorn and Harnan followed close
on Pips' hooves. Mat blessed his luck that they didn't hit a hole or rut in the ground as they crossed the
softer earth coming around behind the inn. The horses could easily have tripped and broken a leg,
throwing all of them into disaster.
The back of the inn was silent, and Mat reined in. Thom leaped from his horse, his agility defying his
earlier complaints about his age. He took up position watching the side of the building to see that they
weren't followed.
"Harnan!" Mat said, thrusting his spear toward the stables. "Get the women's horses out and ready them.
Saddle them if you can, but be ready to go without those if we have to. Light willing, we won't have to
ride far, just a mile or so to get out of the village and away from this insanity."
Harnan saluted in the darkness, then dismounted and dashed over to the stables. Mat waited long enough
to determine that nobody was going to jump out at him from the darkness, then spoke to Delarn, still held
in front of him. "You still conscious?"
Delarn nodded weakly. "Yes, Mat. But I've taken a gut wound. I____"
"We'll get the Aes Sedai," Mat said. "All you need to do is sit right here. Stay in the saddle, all right?"
Delarn nodded again. Mat hesitated at the weakness in the man's motions, but Delarn took Pips' reins, and
seemed determined. So Mat slid out of the saddle, holding his ashandarei at the ready.
"Mat," Delarn said from the saddle.
Mat turned back.
"Thank you. For coming back for me."
"I wasn't going to leave a man to that," Mat said, shivering. "Dying on the battlefield is one thing, but to
die out there, in that darkness. . . . Well, I wasn't going to let it happen. Talmanes! See if you can find
some light."
"Working on it," the Cairhienin said from beside the inn's back door. He had found a lantern hanging
there. A few strikes of flint and steel later, and a small, soft glow lit the backyard of the inn. Talmanes
quickly closed the shield, keeping the light mostly hidden.
Thom trotted back to them. "No one following, Mat," he said.
Mat nodded. By the lanternlight, he could see that Delarn was in bad
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
427
shape. Not just the gut wound, but scrapes across the face, rips in his uniform, one eye swollen shut.
Mat whipped out a handkerchief and pressed it against the gut wound, standing beside Pips and reaching
up to the man in the saddle. "Hold this tight. How'd the wound happen? They don't use weapons."
"One got my own sword away from me," Delarn said with a grunt. "He used it well enough once he had
it."
Talmanes had opened the back door of the inn. He looked to Mat and nodded. The way inside was clear.
"We'll be back soon," Mat promised Delarn. Holding his ashandarei in a loose grip, he crossed the short
distance to the door and nodded to Talmanes and Thorn. The three of them ducked inside.
The door led to the kitchens. Mat scanned the dark room, and Talmanes nudged him, pointing at several
lumps on the floor. The sliver of lantern light revealed a pair of kitchen boys, barely ten years old, dead
on the ground, their necks twisted. Mat glanced away, steeling himself, and inched into the room. Light!
Only lads, and now dead by this insanity.
Thorn shook his head grimly, and the three of them crept forward. They found the cook in the next
hallway, grunting as he beat on the head of what appeared to be the innkeeper. It was a man in a white
apron, at least. He was already dead. The fat cook turned toward Mat and Talmanes the moment they
entered the hallway, feral rage in his eyes. Mat reluctantly struck, silencing him before he could howl and
bring more people against them.
"There's fighting on the stairs," Talmanes said, nodding forward.
"I'll bet there's a servants' stairwell," Thorn noted. "This looks like a nice enough a place for it."
Sure enough, by cutting through two hallways in the back, they found a narrow, rickety stairwell leading
up into darkness. Mat took a deep breath, then started up the stairs, holding his ashandarei at the ready.
The inn was only two stories high, and the flashes had been coming from the second floor, near the front.
They entered the second floor, pushing open the door to the acrid scent of burned flesh. The hallways here
were of wood, the grain obscured by thick white paint. The floor lay under a deep chestnut carpet. Mat
nodded to Talmanes and Thorn, and—weapons at the ready—they burst out of the stairwell and into the
hallway.
Immediately, a ball of fire whooshed in their direction. Mat cursed,
428
THE GATHERING STORM
throwing himself backward and into Talmanes, narrowly avoiding the fire. Thom flattened himself with a
gleeman's agility, getting under the fire. Mat and Talmanes almost tumbled back down the stairs.
"Bloody ashes!" Mat yelled into the hallway. "What do you think you're doing?"
There was silence. Followed, finally, by Joline's voice. "Cauthon?" she called.
"Who do you bloody think it is!" he shouted back.
"I don't know!" she said. "You came around so quickly, weapons out. Are you trying to get killed?"
"We're trying to rescue you!" Mat yelled.
"Do we look like we need rescuing?" came the response.
"Well, you're still here, aren't you?" Mat called back.
That was met with silence.
"Oh, for Light's sake," Joline finally called back. "Will you come out here?"
"You're not going to throw another fireball at me, are you?" Mat muttered, stepping out into the hallway
as Thom climbed to his feet, Talmanes following. He found the three Aes Sedai standing at the head of
the wide, handsome stairs at the other end of the hallway. Teslyn and Edesina continued to throw fireballs
down at unseen villagers below, their hair wet, their dresses disheveled as if they'd been donned hastily.
Joline wore only an enveloping white dressing robe, her pretty face calm, her dark hair slick and wet and
hanging down over the front of her right shoulder. The robe was parted slightly at the top, giving a hint of
what hid inside. Talmanes whistled softly.
"She's not a woman, Talmanes," Mat whispered warningly. "She's an Aes Sedai. Don't think of her as a
woman."
"I'm trying, Mat," Talmanes said. "But it's hard." He hesitated, then added, "Burn me."
"Be careful or she will," Mat said, tugging his hat down slightly in the front. "In fact, she nearly did that
just a moment ago."
Talmanes sighed, and the three of them crossed the hallway to the women. Joline's two Warders, who had
their weapons out, stood just inside the bathing chamber. A dozen or so servants were tied up in the
corner: a pair of young girls—probably bathing attendants—and several men in vests and trousers.
Apparently Joline's dress had been cut to strips and used for bonds. The silk would work far better than
wool towels. Near
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
429
the top of the stairs, just below the Aes Sedai, Mat could barely make out a cluster of corpses that had
fallen to swords, not fire.
Joline eyed Mat as he approached, a look implying that she considered all this to be bis fault somehow.
She folded her arms, closing up the top of the robe, though he wasn't sure if that was because of
Talmanes' gawking or if the move was coincidental.
"We need to move," Mat told the women. "The whole city has gone mad."
"We can't go," Joline said. "Not and leave those servants to the mob. Besides, we need to find Master
Tobrad and make certain he is safe."
"Master Tobrad is the innkeeper?" Mat asked. A fireball whooshed down the stairs.
"Yes," Joline said.
"Too late," Mat said. "His brains are already decorating the walls downstairs. Look, like I said, the entire
village is crazy. Those servants tried to kill you, didn't they?"
Joline hesitated. "Yes."
"Leave them," Mat said. "We can't do anything for them."
"But if we wait until dawn . . ." Joline said hesitantly.
"And what?" Mat said. "Burn to ash every person who tries to climb those stairs? You're making a ruckus
here, and it's drawing more and more people. You're going to have to kill them all to stop them."
Joline glanced at the other two women.
"Look," Mat said. "I have a wounded Redarm down below, and I intend to get him out of this alive. You
can't do any good for these people here. I suspect your Warders had to kill that group at the top of the
stairs before you all felt threatened enough to use the Power. You know how determined they are."
"All right," Joline said. "I'll come. But we're bringing the two serving girls. Blaeric and Fen can carry
them."
Mat sighed—he'd have liked the Warders' blades free to help in case they ran into trouble—but said
nothing more. He nodded to Talmanes and Thorn, and waited impatiently as the Warders picked up the
two bound serving girls and slung them over shoulders. After that, the whole group hustled back down the
servants' stairwell, Talmanes leading and Mat at the rear. He could hear screams that sounded half angry,
half joyous as the villagers at the base of the stairs realized no more fire would fall. There were thumps
and shouts, followed by doors opening, and Mat
43°
THE GATHERING STORM
cringed, imagining the other servants—left tied up in the bathing chamber—falling to the crowd.
Mat and the others burst out into the backyard of the inn, only to find Delarn on the ground beside Pips.
Harnan knelt beside him, and the bearded soldier looked up with anxiety. "Mat!" he said. "He fell from
the saddle. I—"
Edesina cut him off, rushing over and kneeling beside Delarn. She closed her eyes, and Mat felt a chill
from his medallion. It made him shiver as he imagined the One Power leaking out of her and into the
man. That was almost as bad as dying, bloody ashes but it was! He gripped the medallion beneath his
shirt.
Delarn stiffened, but then gasped, eyes fluttering open.
"It is done," Edesina said, standing up. "He will be weak from the Healing, but I reached him in time."
Harnan had gathered and saddled all of their horses, Light bless him. Good man. The women mounted,
and spared several glances over their shoulders at the inn.
"It's as if the darkness itself intoxicates them," Thorn said while Mat helped Delarn into his saddle. "As if
Light itself has forsaken them, leaving them only to the Shadow. ..."
"Nothing we can do," Mat said, pulling himself into his saddle behind Delarn. The soldier was too weak
to ride on his own, after that Healing. Mat eyed the serving girls that the Warders had slung over the
fronts of their horses. They struggled against their bonds, hate in their eyes. He turned and nodded to
Talmanes, who had affixed the lantern to a saddle pole. The Cairhienin opened the shield, bathing the
inn's stableyard in light. A path led northward, out of the yard into the dark. Away from the army, but also
directly out of the village, toward the hills. That was good enough for Mat.
"Ride," he said, kicking Pips into motion. The group fell in beside him.
"I told you we should leave," Talmanes noted, looking over his shoulder, riding at Mat's left. "But you
had to stay for one more toss."
Mat didn't look back. "Not my fault, Talmanes. How was I to know that staying would cause them all to
start tearing each other's throats out?"
"What?" Talmanes asked, glancing at him. "Isn't this usually how people react when you tell them
you're going to spend the night?"
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
431
Mat rolled his eyes, but didn't feel much like laughing as he led the group out of the village.
Hours later, Mat sat on a rock outcropping on a dark hillside, looking down at Hinderstap. The village
was dark. Not a light burned. It was impossible to tell what was going on, but still he watched. How could
a man sleep, after what they'd been through?
Well, the soldiers did sleep. He didn't blame Delarn. An Aes Sedai Healing could drain a man. Mat had
felt that icy chill himself on occasion, and he didn't intend to repeat the experience. Talmanes and Harnan
hadn't the excuse of a Healing, but they were soldiers. Soldiers learned to sleep when they could, and the
night's experience didn't seem to have disturbed them nearly as much as it had Mat. Oh, they'd been
worried while in the thick of it, but now it was just another battle passed. Another battle survived. That
had led stout Harnan to joking and smiling as they bedded down.
Not Mat. There was an odd wrongness about the entire experience. Was the curfew intended to keep this
from happening, somehow? Had Mat, by staying, caused all of these deaths? Blood and bloody ashes.
Did no place in the world make sense anymore?
"Mat, lad," Thorn said, joining him, walking with his familiar limp. He'd had a fractured arm, though he'd
hadn't mentioned it until Edesina had noticed him flinching and insisted on Healing him. "You should
sleep." Now that the moon had risen—hidden behind the clouds—there was enough light for Mat to see
Thorn's concern.
The group had stopped in a small hollow off one side of the trail. It gave a good view back toward the
village, and—more importantly—it overlooked the path that Mat and the others had used to escape. The
hollow lay on a steep hillside, the only approach from below. One person on watch could keep a good eye
out for anyone trying to sneak into the camp.
The Aes Sedai had bedded down near the back of the hollow, though Mat didn't think they were actually
sleeping. Joline's Warders had thought to bring bedrolls, just in case. Warders were like that. Mat's men
only had their cloaks, but that hadn't deterred them from sleeping. Talmanes was even snoring softly,
despite the spring chill. Mat had forbidden a fire. It wasn't so cold that they needed one, and it would just
signal anyone looking for them.
432
THE GATHERING STORM
"I'm fine, Thorn," Mat said, making room on his rock as the gleeman settled down. "You're the one who
should get some sleep."
Thorn shook his head. "One nice thing I've noticed about getting older is that your body doesn't seem to
need its sleep as much anymore. Dying doesn't take as much energy as growing, I guess."
"Don't start that again," Mat said. "Do I need to remind you about how you hauled my skinny backside
out of trouble back there? What was that you were worried about earlier? That I didn't need you anymore?
If you hadn't been with me today, if you hadn't come looking for me, I'd be dead in that village. Delarn
too."
Thom grinned, eyes bright in the moonlight. "All right, Mat," he said. "No more. I promise."
Mat nodded. The two of them sat for a time on their rock, looking out at the city. "It's not going to leave
me alone, Thom," Mat finally said.
"What?"
"All of this," Mat said tiredly. "The bloody Dark One and his spawn. They've been chasing me since that
night in the Two Rivers, and nothing has stopped them."
"You think this was him?"
"What else could it have been?" Mat asked. "Quiet village folk, turning into violent madmen? It's the
Dark One's own work, and you know it."
Thom was silent. "Yes," he finally said. "I suppose it is at that."
"They're still coming for me," Mat said angrily. "That bloody gholam is out there, I know it is, but that's
just part of it. Myrddraal and Dark-friends, monsters and ghosts. Chasing me and hunting me. I've
stumbled from one disaster to another, barely keeping my neck above water, ever since this began. I keep
saying I just need to find a hole somewhere to dice and drink, but that won't stop it. Nothing will."
"You're ta'veren, lad," Thom said.
"I didn't ask to be. Burn me, I wish they'd all just go bother Rand. He likes it." He shook his head,
dispelling the image that formed, showing Rand asleep in his bed, Min curled up beside him.
"You really think that?" Thom asked.
Mat hesitated. "I wish I did," he admitted. "It would make things easier."
"Lies never make things easier in the long run. Unless they're to exactly the right person—usually a
woman—at exactly the right time. When you tell them to yourself, you just bring more trouble."
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
433
"I brought those people trouble. In the village." He glanced toward the back of the camp, where the two
Warders sat, guarding the still-bound serving girls. They continued to struggle. Light! Where did they get
the strength? It was inhuman.
"I don't think this was you, Mat," Thom said thoughtfully. "Oh, I don't disagree that trouble hunts
you—the Dark One himself seems to do so. But Hinderstap . . . well, when I was singing in that common
room, I heard some tidbits. They seemed like nothing. But looking back, it strikes me that the people were
expecting this. Or something like it."
"How could they have been?" Mat said. "If this had happened before, they'd all be dead."
"Don't know," Thom said thoughtfully. Then something seemed to strike him. He began fishing inside his
cloak. "Oh, I forgot. Maybe there is some connection between you and what happened. I managed to take
this away from a man who was too drunk for his own good." The glee-man pulled out a folded piece of
paper and handed it to Mat.
Mat took the paper, frowning, and unfolded it. He squinted in the diffuse moonlight, leaning close, and
grunted when he made out what the paper contained—not words, but a very accurate drawing of Mat's
face, hat atop his head. It even had the foxhead medallion drawn in around his neck. Bloody ashes.
He contained his annoyance. "Handsome fellow. Good nose, straight teeth, dashing hat."
Thom snorted.
"I saw some men showing a paper to the mayor," Mat said, refolding the drawing. "I didn't see what was
on it, but I'll bet it was the same as this. What did the man you took this from say about it?"
"An outlander woman in some village north of here is giving them out and offering a reward to anyone
who has seen you. The man got the paper from a friend, so he didn't have a description of her or the
town's name. Either his friend kept him ignorant, wanting the reward for himself, or he was just too drunk
to remember."
Mat tucked the paper into his coat pocket. The light of false dawn was beginning to glow to the east. He'd
sat up all night, but he didn't feel tired. Just . . . drained. "I'm going back," he said.
"What?" Thom asked, surprised. "To Hinderstap?"
Mat nodded, rising. "As soon as it's light. I need to—"
A muffled curse interrupted him. He spun, reaching for his asban-darei. Thom had a pair of knives in his
hands in the blink of an eye. Fen,
434
THE GATHERING STORM
Joline's Saldaean Warder, was the one who had cursed. He stood, hand on his sword, searching the
ground around him. Blaeric stood by the Aes Sedai, sword out, alert and on guard.
"What?" Mat asked tersely.
"The prisoners," Fen said.
Mat started, realizing that the lumps that had lain near the Warders were gone. He dashed over, cursing.
Talmanes' snores stopped as the sounds woke him and he sat up. The bonds made from strips of Joline's
dress lay on the ground, but the serving girls were gone.
"What happened?" Mat asked, looking up.
"I ..." The dark-haired Warder looked dumbfounded. "I have no idea. They were here just a moment ago!"
"Did you doze off?" Mat demanded.
"Fen wouldn't have done such a thing," Joline said, sitting up in her bedroll, her voice calm. She still wore
only that dressing robe.
"Lad," Thom said, "we both saw those girls here barely a minute ago."
Talmanes cursed and woke the two Redarms. Delarn was looking a great deal better, his weakness from
the Healing barely seeming to bother him as he climbed to his feet. The Warders called for a search, but
Mat just turned back to the village below. "The answers are there," Mat said. "Thom, you're with me.
Talmanes, watch the women."
"We have little need of being 'watched,' Matrim," Joline said grumpily.
"Fine," he snapped. "Thom, you're with me. Joline, you watch the soldiers. Either way, you all stay here. I
can't worry about a whole group right now."
He didn't give them a chance to argue. Within minutes, Mat and Thom were on their horses, riding down
the path back toward Hinder-stap.
"Lad," Thom said, "what is it you expect to find?"
"I don't know," Mat replied. "If I did, I wouldn't be so keen to look."
"Fair enough," Thom said softly.
Mat spotted the oddities almost immediately. Those goats out on the western pasture. He couldn't tell for
certain in the dawn light, but it looked like someone was herding them. And were those lights winking on
in the village? There hadn't been a single one of those all night long! He hastened Pips' pace, Thom
following silently.
It took the better part of an hour to arrive—Mat hadn't wanted to risk camping too close, though he'd also
been disinclined to hunt a way
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
435
around and back to the army in the dark. It was fully light, if still very early, by the time they rode back
into the inn's yard. A couple of men in dun coats were working on the back door, which had apparently
been broken off its hinges sometime after Mat and the others left. The men looked up as Mat and Thorn
rode into the yard, and one of them pulled off his cap, looking anxious. Neither one made a threatening
move.
Mat slowed Pips to a halt. One of the men whispered to the other, who ran inside. A moment later, a
balding man with a white apron stepped out through the doorway. Mat felt himself go pale.
"The innkeeper," Mat said. "Burn me, I saw you dead!"
"Best go get the mayor, son," the innkeeper said to one of the working men. He glanced back at Mat.
"Quickly."
"What in the bloody name of Hawkwing's left hand is going on here?" Mat demanded. "Was it all some
kind of twisted show? You—"
A head stuck out of the inn door, peeking around the innkeeper toward Mat. The pudgy face had curly
blond hair. Last time he'd seen this man, the cook, Mat had been forced to gut the man and slit his throat.
"You!" he said, pointing. "I killedyou!"
"Calm down, now, son," the innkeeper said. "Come in, we'll get you some tea, and—"
"I'm not going anywhere with you, spirit," Mat said. "Thorn, you seeing this?"
The gleeman rubbed his chin. "Perhaps we should hear the man out, Mat."
"Ghosts and spirits," Mat muttered, turning Pips. "Come on." He urged Pips forward, charging around to
the front of the inn, Thom following. Here he caught a glimpse of many workers inside, carrying buckets
of white paint. To fix the places where Aes Sedai fire had scored the building, likely.
Thom pulled up beside Mat. "I've never seen anything like this, Mat," he said. "Why would spirits need to
paint walls and repair doors?"
Mat shook his head. He'd spotted the place where he'd fought the villagers to save Delarn. He pulled Pips
to a halt suddenly, making Thom curse and round his own mount around to come back.
"What?" Thom asked.
Mat pointed. There was a stain of blood on the ground and across several rocks beside the road. "Where
they stabbed Delarn," he said.
"All right," Thom said. Around them, men passed on the street, gazes averted. They gave Mat and Thom
a wide berth.
436
THE GATHERING STORM
Blood and bloody ashes, Mat thought. I've gotten us surrounded again. What if they attack? Bloody fool!
"So there's blood," Thorn said. "What did you expect?"
"Where's the rest of the blood, Thorn?" Mat growled. "I killed a good dozen men here, and I saw them
bleed. You dropped three with your knives. Where's the blood?"
"It vanishes," a voice said.
Mat spun Pips to find the burly, hairy-armed mayor standing on the road a short distance away. He must
have been near already; there was no way the workers could have fetched him that quickly. Of course, the
way things seemed to be going in this village, who could tell that for certain? Barlden wore a cloak and
shirt with several fresh rips in them.
"The blood vanishes," he said, sounding exhausted. "None of us have seen it. We just wake up and it's
gone."
Mat hesitated, looking around the village. Women peeked out of houses, holding children. Men left for
the fields, carrying crooks or hoes. Save for the air of anxiety at Mat and Thorn's presence, one would
never know anything had gone wrong in the village.
"We won't hurt you," the mayor said, turning away from Mat. "So you needn't look so worried. At least,
not until the sun sets. I'll give you an explanation, if you want one. Either come and listen or be gone with
you. I don't really care, so long as you stop disturbing my town. We've work to do. Much more than
usual, thanks to you."
Mat glanced at Thorn, who shrugged. "It never hurts to listen," Thorn said.
"I don't know," Mat said, eyeing Barlden. "Not unless you think it could hurt to end up surrounded by
crazy, homicidal mountainfolk."
"We leave, then?"
Mat shook his head slowly. "No. Burn me, they've still got my gold. Come on, let's see what he has to
say."
"It started several months back," the mayor said, standing beside the window. They were in a neat—yet
simple—sitting room in his manor. The curtains and carpet were of a soft pale green, almost the color of
ox-eye leaves, with light tan wood paneling. The mayor's wife had brought tea made from dried
sweetberries. Mat hadn't chosen to drink any, and he had made certain to lean against the wall near the
street door. His spear rested beside him.
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
437
Barlden's wife was a short, brown-haired woman, faintly pudgy, with a motherly air. She returned from
the kitchen, carrying a bowl of honey for the tea, then hesitated as she saw Mat leaning by the wall. She
eyed the spear, then put the bowl on the table and retreated.
"What happened?" Mat asked, glancing at Thorn, who had also declined a seat. The old gleeman stood
with arms crossed beside the door from the kitchens. He nodded to Mat; the woman wasn't listening at the
door. He'd make a motion if he heard someone approach.
"We aren't sure if it was something we did, or just a cruel curse by the Dark One himself," the mayor said.
"It was a normal day, early this year, just before the Feast of Abram. Nothing really special about it that I
can remember. The weather had broken by then, though the snows hadn't come yet. A lot of us went
about our normal activities the next morning, thinking nothing of it.
"The oddities were small, you see. A broken door here, a rip in someone's clothing they didn't remember.
And the nightmares. We all shared them, nightmares of death and killing. A few of the women started
talking, and they realized that they couldn't remember turning in the previous evening. They could
remember waking, safe and comfortable in their beds, but only a few remembered actually getting into
bed. Those who could remember had gone to sleep early, before sunset. For the rest of us, the late evening
was just a blur."
He fell silent. Mat glanced at Thorn, who did not respond. Mat could see in those blue eyes of his that he
was memorizing the tale. He'd better get it right if he puts me in any ballads, Mat thought, folding his
arms. And he'd better include my hat. This is a good bloody hat.
"I was in the pastures that night," the mayor continued. "I was helping old man Garken with a broken strip
of fencing. And then . . . nothing. A fuzzing. I awoke the next morning in my own bed, next to my wife.
We felt tired, as if we hadn't slept well." He stopped, then more softly, he added, "And I had the
nightmares. They're vague, and they fade. But I can remember one vivid image. Old man Garken, dead at
my feet. Killed as if by a wild beast."
Barlden stood next to a window in the eastern wall, opposite Mat, staring out. "But I went to see Garken
the next day, and he was fine. We finished fixing the fence. It wasn't until I got back to town that I heard
the chattering. The shared nightmares, the missing hours just after sunset. We gathered, talking it through,
and then it happened again. The sun set, and when it rose I woke up in bed again, tired, mind full of
nightmares."
438
THE GATHERING STORM
He shivered, then walked over to the table and poured himself a cup of tea.
"We don't know what happens at night," the mayor said, stirring in a spoonful of honey.
"You don't know?" Mat demanded. "I can bloody tell you what happens at night. You—"
"We don't know what happens," the mayor interrupted, looking up sharply. "And have no care to know."
"But—"
"We have no need to know, outlander," the mayor said harshly. "We want to live our lives as best we can.
Many of us turn in early, lying down before sunset. There are no holes in our memories that way. We go
to bed, we wake up in that same bed. There are nightmares, perhaps some damage to the house, but
nothing that can't be fixed. Others prefer to visit a tavern and drink to the setting of the sun. There's a
blessing in that, I suppose. Drink all you want, and you never have to worry about getting home. You
always wake safe and sound in bed."
"You can't avoid this entirely," Thom said softly. "You can't pretend nothing is different."
"We don't." Barlden took a drink of tea. "We have the rules. Rules that you ignored. No fires lit after
sunset—we can't have a blaze starting in the night, without anyone to fight it. And we forbid outsiders
inside the town after sunset. We learned that lesson quickly. The first people trapped here after nightfall
were relatives of Sammrie the cooper. We found blood on the walls of his home the next morning. But his
sister and her family were safely asleep in the beds he'd given them." The mayor paused. "Now they have
the same nightmares we do."
"So just leave," Mat said. "Leave this bloody place and go somewhere else!"
"We've tried," the mayor said. "We always wake up back here, no matter how far we go. Some have tried
ending their lives. We buried the bodies. They woke up the next morning in their beds."
The room fell silent.
"Blood and bloody ashes," Mat whispered. He felt chilled.
"You survived the night," the mayor said, stirring his tea again. "I assumed that you hadn't, after seeing
that bloodstain. We were curious to see where you'd wake up. Most of the rooms in the inns are
permanently taken by travelers who are now, for better or worse, part of our village. We aren't able to
choose where someone awakens. It just happens. An empty
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
439
bed gets a new occupant, and from then on they wake up there each morning.
"Anyway, when I heard you talking to one another about what you'd seen, I realized that you must have
escaped. You remember the night too vividly. Anyone who . . . joins us simply has the nightmares. Count
yourselves lucky. I suggest you move on and forget Hinderstap."
"We have Aes Sedai with us," Thorn said. "They might be able to do something to help you. We could
tell the White Tower, have them send—"
"No!" Barlden said sharply. "Our lives aren't so bad, now that we know how to deal with our situation.
We don't want Aes Sedai eyes on us." He turned away. "We nearly turned your group away flat. We do
that, sometimes, if we sense that the travelers won't obey our rules. But you had Aes Sedai with you. They
ask questions, they get curious. We worried that if we turned you away, they'd get suspicious and force
entrance."
"Forcing them to leave at sunset made them even more curious," Mat said. "And having their bathing
attendants bloody try to kill them isn't a good way to keep the secret either."
The mayor looked wan. "Some wished . . . well, that you'd be trapped here. They thought that if Aes
Sedai were bound here, they'd find a way out for all of us. We don't all agree. Either way, it's our
problem. Please, just. . . .Just go."
"Fine." Mat stood up straight and picked up his spear. "But first, tell me where these came from." He
pulled the paper from his pocket, the one that bore a drawing of his face.
Barlden glanced at it. "You'll find those spread around the nearby villages," he said. "Someone's looking
for you. As I told Ledron last night, I'm not in the business of selling out guests. I wasn't about to kidnap
you and risk keeping you here overnight just for some reward."
"Who's looking for me?" Mat repeated.
"About twenty leagues to the northeast, there's a small town called Trustair. Rumor says that if you want a
little coin, you can bring news about a man who looks like the one in this picture, or the other one. Visit
an inn in Trustair called The Shaken Fist to find the one looking for you."
"Other picture?" Mat asked, frowning.
"Yes. A burly fellow with a beard. A note at the bottom says he has golden eyes."
Mat glanced at Thorn, who'd raised a bushy eyebrow.
"Blood and bloody ashes," Mat muttered and pulled the side of his
440
THE GATHERING STORM
hat down. Who was looking for him and Perrin, and what did they want? "We'll be going, I suppose," he
said. He glanced at Barlden. Poor fellow. That went for the entire village. But what was Mat to do about
it? There were rights you could win, and others you just had to leave for someone else.
"Your gold is on the wagon outside," the mayor said. "We didn't take any from your winnings. The food
is there too." He met Mat's eyes. "We hold to our word, here. Other things are out of our control,
particularly for those who don't listen to the rules. But we aren't going to rob a man just because he's an
outsider."
"Mighty tolerant of you," Mat said flatly, pulling open the door. "Have a good day, then, and when night
comes, try not to kill anyone I wouldn't kill. Thorn, you coming?"
The gleeman joined him, limping slightly from his old wound. Mat glanced back at Barlden, who stood
with sleeves rolled up in the center of the room, looking down at his teacup. He seemed like he was
wishing that cup held something a little stronger.
"Poor fellow," Mat said, then stepped out into the morning light after Thom and pulled the door shut
behind him.
"I assume we're going after that person spreading around pictures of you?" Thom asked.
"Right as Light, we are," Mat said, tying his ashandarei to Pips' saddle. "It's on the way to Four Kings
anyway. I'll lead your horse if you can drive the wagon."
Thom nodded. He was studying the mayor's home.
"What?" Mat asked.
"Nothing, lad," the gleeman said. "It's just . . . well, it's a sad tale. Something's wrong in the world.
There's a snag in the Pattern here. The town unravels at night, and then the world tries to reset it each
morning to make things right again."
"Well, they should be more forthcoming," Mat said. The villagers had pulled the food-filled wagon up
while Mat and Thom had been chatting with the mayor. It was hitched to two strong draft horses, tan of
coloring and wide of hoof.
"More forthcoming?" Thom asked. "How? The mayor is right, they did try to warn us."
Mat grunted, walking over to open the chest and check on his gold. It was there, as the mayor had said. "I
don't know," he said. "They could put up a warning sign or something. Hello. Welcome to Hinderstap.
We
NIGHT IN HINDERSTAP
441
will murder you in the night and eat your bloody face if you stay past sunset. Try the pies. Martna Baily
makes them fresh daily."
Thorn didn't chuckle. "Poor taste, lad. There's too much tragedy in this town for levity."
"Funny," Mat said. He counted out about as much gold as he figured would be a good price for the food
and the wagon. Then, after a moment, he added ten more silver crowns. He set all of this in a pile on the
mayor's doorstep, then closed the chest. "The more tragic things get, the more / feel like laughing."
"Are we really going to take this wagon?"
"We need the food," Mat said, lashing the chest to the back of the wagon. Several large wheels of white
cheese and a half dozen legs of mutton lay prominently alongside the casks of ale. The food smelled
good, and his stomach rumbled. "I won it fair." He glanced at the villagers passing on the street. When
he'd first seen them the day before, he'd thought the slowness of their pace was due to the lazy nature of
the mountain villagers. Now it struck him that there was another reason entirely.
He turned back to his work, checking the horses' harness. "And I don't feel a bit bad taking the wagon and
horses. I doubt these villagers are going to be doing much traveling in the future. ..."
CHAPTER 29
Into Bandar Eban
"\
/f °iraim Damodred, who died became of my weakness. I 1/1
Rand slowed Tai'daishar to a
walk as he passed through
JL ¥ JL the massive gateway to Bandar Eban, his entourage following, ranks of Aiel leading him. The
gates were said to be carved with the city's seal, but swung open as they were, Rand couldn't see them.
The nameless Darkfriend I beheaded in those Murandian hills. I've forgotten the looks of the others with her, but I
will never forget her face.
The list ran through his head. Almost a daily ritual now, the name of every woman who had died by his
hand or because of his actions. The street inside the city was of packed earth, lined with ruts that
crisscrossed at the intersections. The dirt was lighter here than he was used to.
Colavaere Saighan, who died because I made her a pauper.
He rode past ranks of Domani, women in diaphanous gowns, men with thin mustaches and colorful coats.
The roadways here had wooden boardwalks at the sides, and the people crowded them, watching. Rand
could hear banners and flags flapping in the wind. There seemed to be a lot of them in the city.
The list always began with Moiraine. That name hurt the most of all, for he could have saved her. He
should have. He hated himself for allowing her to sacrifice herself for him.
A child stepped off the boardwalk and started to run out into the
443
444
THE GATHERING STORM
street, but his father caught him by the hand and hauled him back into the press of people. Some coughed
and muttered, but most were silent. The sounds of Rand's troops marching on the packed earth seemed a
thunder by comparison.
Was Lanfear alive again? If Ishamael could be returned, what about her? In that case, Moraine's death had
been for naught, and his cowardice was even more galling. Never again. The list would remain, but he
would never again be too weak to do what must be done.
There were no cheers from the people on those boardwalks. Well, he had not come to liberate. He had
come to do what must be done. Perhaps he would find Graendal here; Asmodean said she had been in the
country, but that had been so long ago. If he found her, perhaps that would assuage his conscience at
invading.
Did he have one of those anymore? He could not decide.
Liab, of the Cosaida Chareen, whom I killed, telling myself it was for her own good. Oddly, Lews Therin started
to chant with him, reading off the names, a strange, echoing chant inside his head.
Ahead, a large group of Aiel stood waiting for him in a city square set with copper fountains in the shape
of horses leaping from a frothy wave. A man on horseback waited before the fountain, an honor guard
around him. He was a solid, square-faced man with furrowed skin and gray hair. His forehead was shaved
and powdered, after the fashion of Cairhienin soldiers. Dobraine was trustworthy, as much as any
Cairhienin was, at least.
Sendara of the Iron Mountain Taardad, Lamelle of the Smoke Water Mi-agoma, Andhilin of the Red Salt Goshien.
Hyena Therin Moerelle, Lews Therin said, slipping the name in between two others. Rand let it stand. At
least the madman didn't scream again.
"Lord Dragon," Dobraine said smoothly, bowing to Rand as he approached. "I deliver to you the city of
Bandar Eban. Order has been restored, as you commanded."
"I asked you to restore order to the entire country, Dobraine," Rand said softly. "Not just one city."
The nobleman wilted slightly.
"You have one of the merchant council for me?" Rand asked.
"Yes," Dobraine said. "Milisair Chadmar, last to flee the city's chaos." His eyes were eager. He had
always been stalwart, but was that a ruse?
INTO BANDAR EBAN
445
Rand had trouble trusting anyone lately. The ones who seemed most trustworthy were the ones you
needed to watch the most. And Dobraine was Cairhienin. Dared Rand trust anyone from Cairhien, with
their games?
Moiraine was Cairbienin. I trusted her. Mostly.
Perhaps Dobraine hoped that Rand would choose him as king in Arad Doman. He had been steward of
Cairhien, but he—like most others—knew that Rand intended Elayne for the Sun Throne.
Well, Rand might give this kingdom to Dobraine at that. He was better than most. Rand nodded for him
to lead the way, and he did so, turning with the group of Aiel to march down a large side street. Rand
continued, list still running through his mind.
The buildings here were tall and square, with the shape of boxes stacked atop one another. Many of them
had balconies, packed with people, like the boardwalks beneath.
Each name on Rand's list pained him, but that pain was a strange, distant thing now. His feelings were . . .
different since the day he had killed Semirhage. She had taught him how to bury his guilt and his hurt.
She had thought to chain him, but instead had given him strength.
He added her name and Elza's name to the list. They didn't have any right to be there. Semirhage was less
a woman and more a monster. Elza had betrayed him, serving the Shadow all along. But he added the
names. They had as much claim on him for killing them as any. More, even. He had been unwilling to kill
Lanfear to save Moiraine, but he had used balefire to burn Semirhage out of existence rather than allow
himself to be captured again.
He fingered the object he carried in a pouch on his saddle. It was a smooth figurine. He had not told
Cadsuane that his servants had recovered it from her room. Now that Cadsuane was exiled from his
presence, he never would. He knew that she tagged along still with his entourage, pushing the limits of his
command to never let him see her face. But she did as ordered, and so he let it be. He would not speak to
her, and she would not speak to him.
Cadsuane had been a tool, and that tool had proven ineffective. He did not regret casting it aside.
Jendhilin, Maiden of the Cold Peak Miagoma, he thought, Lews Therin muttering alongside him. The list
was so long. It would grow before he died.
Death no longer worried him. Finally, he understood Lews Therin's
446
THE GATHERING STORM
cries to let it end. Rand deserved to die. Was there a death so strong that a man would never have to be
reborn? He reached the end of the list, finally. Once, he'd repeated it to keep himself from forgetting the
names. That was not possible now; he could not forget them if he wished. He repeated them as a reminder
of what he was.
But Lews Therin had one more name to add. Elmindreda Farshaw, he whispered.
Rand pulled Tai'daishar up short, stopping his column of Aiel, Sal-daean cavalry, and camp attendants in
the middle of the street. Dobraine turned back questioningly on his white stallion.
/ did not kill her! Rand thought. Lews Therin, she lives on. We didn't kill her! That was Semirhage who was to
blame, in any case.
Silence. He could still feel his fingers on her flesh, squeezing, impotent yet incredibly strong. Even if
Semirhage had been behind the actions, Rand was the one who had been too weak to send Min away and
protect her.
He hadn't sent her away. Not because he was too weak, but because something in him had stopped caring.
Not about her—he loved her fiercely, and always would. But he knew that death, pain and destruction
came in his wake, and he dragged them behind him like a cloak. Min might die here, but if he sent her
away, she would be in just as much danger. His enemies likely suspected that he loved her.
There was no safety. If she died, he would add her to the list and suffer for it.
He started moving again before question could be called to his actions. Tai'daishar's hooves thumped on
the earthen streets, made soft by the humidity. Rains came often here; Bandar Eban was the prime port
city of the northwest. If it wasn't a great city like those in the south, it was still impressive. Row upon row
of square houses, built of wood, ridged at the second and third stories. They looked like children's blocks,
stacked on top of one another, so perfectly square with the stories divided. They filled the city, rolling
down a gentle incline to the massive port.
The city was widest at the port, making it seem like the head of a man opening his mouth wide, as if to
drink in the ocean itself. The docks were nearly empty; the only ships moored were a cluster of Sea Folk
vessels—three-masted rakers—and some fishing trawlers. The massive size of the port only made it look
more desolate for the lack of ships.
That was the first sign that all was not well in Bandar Eban.
Other than the virtually unoccupied harbor, the most distinctive asINTO BANDAR EBAN
447
pect of the city was the banners. They flew above—or hung from—every building, no matter how
humble. Many of those banners proclaimed the trade practiced in a given building—much as a simple
wooden sign would in Caemlyn. The banners were far more extravagant than most, bright-colored and
fluttering in the wind above the buildings. Matching tapestry-like banners hung from the sides of most
buildings, announcing in bright lettering the owner, master craftsman and merchant of each shop. Even
homes bore banners with the names of the families who lived therein.
Copper-skinned and dark-haired, the Domani favored bright clothing. Domani women were infamous for
their dresses, which were filmy enough to be scandalous. It was said that very young Domani girls
practiced the art of manipulating men, preparing for the day when they would be of age.
The sight of them all standing along the roads, watching, was nearly spectacle enough to draw Rand out
of his brooding. Perhaps a year ago, he would have gawked, but now he barely gave them a glance. In
fact, it came to him that Domani people were far less striking when gathered together like this. A flower
in a field of weeds was always a sight, but if you passed cultivated flower beds every day, none of them
drew your notice.
Distracted though he was, he did pick out the signs of starvation. There was no mistaking that haunted
cast to the children, that lean look to the faces of the adults. This city had been in chaos just weeks ago,
though Dobraine and the Aiel had restored the law. Some of the buildings bore poorly mended windows
or broken boards, and some of the banners had obviously been ripped recently and shoddily mended. Law
had been restored, but the lack of it was still a fresh memory.
Rand's group reached a central crossroads, proclaimed by large flapping banners to be Arandi Square, and
Dobraine turned the procession to the east. Many of the Aiel with the Cairhienin wore the red headband
marking them as siswat'aman. Spears of the Dragon. Rhuarc had some twenty thousand Aiel camped
around the city and in the nearby towns; by now most Domani would know that these Aiel followed the
Dragon Reborn.
Rand was glad to find that the Sea Folk rakers had arrived—finally— with grain from the south.
Hopefully, that would do as much to restore order as Dobraine and the Aiel had.
The procession turned into the wealthy section of the city. He knew where they'd find it long before the
homes started looking more lavish: as
448
THE GATHERING STORM
far from the docks as possible, while still remaining a comfortable distance from the city walls. Rand
could have found the rich even without looking at a map. The city's landscape all but demanded their
location.
A horse clopped up beside Rand. At first, he assumed it would be Min—but no, she was riding behind,
with the Wise Ones. Did she look at him differently now, or was he just imagining it? Did she remember
his fingers at her throat every time she saw his face?
It was Merise who had moved up beside him, riding a placid dun mare. The Aes Sedai was infuriated by
Rand's exile of Cadsuane. Unsurprising. Aes Sedai liked to maintain a very calm and controlled front, but
Merise and the others had pandered to Cadsuane much like a village innkeeper simpering over a visiting
king.
The Taraboner woman had chosen to wear her shawl today, proclaiming her affiliation to the Green Ajah.
She wore it, perhaps, in an effort to reinforce her authority. Inwardly, Rand sighed. He had been
expecting a confrontation, but he had hoped that the business of the move would delay it until tempers
subsided. He respected Cadsuane, after a fashion, but he had never trusted her. There had to be
consequences for failure, and he felt a great relief from having dealt with her. There would be no more of
her strings wrapping themselves around him.
Or, at least, fewer of them.
"This exile, it is foolish, Rand al'Thor," Merise said dismissively. Was she intentionally trying to rile him,
perhaps to make him easier to bully? After months of dealing with Cadsuane herself, this woman's pale
imitation was almost amusing.
"You should beg for her forgiveness," Merise continued. "She has condescended to continue with us,
though your inane restriction has forced her to wear a cloak with the hood up, despite the warmth of the
day. You should be ashamed."
Cadsuane again. He shouldn't have left her room to wiggle around his command.
"Well?" Merise asked.
Rand turned his head and looked Merise in the eyes. He had discovered something shocking during the
last few hours. By bottling up the seething fury within him—by becoming cuendillar—he had gained an
understanding that had long eluded him.
People did not respond to anger. They did not respond to demands. Silence and questions, these were far
more effective. Indeed, Merise—a fully trained Aes Sedai—wilted before that stare.
INTO BANDAR EBAN
449
He put no emotion into it. His rage, his anger, his passion—it was all still there, buried within. But he had
surrounded it with ice, cold and immobilizing. It was the ice of the place Semirhage had taught him to go,
the place that was like the void, but far more dangerous.
Perhaps Merise could sense frozen rage within him. Or perhaps she could sense the other thing, the fact
that he'd used that . . . power. Distantly, Lews Therin began to cry. The madman did that whenever Rand
thought of what he had done to escape Semirhage's collar.
"What you did, it was a foolish move," Merise continued. "You should—"
"Do you think me a fool, then?" Rand asked softly.
Respond to demands with silence, respond to challenges with questions. It was amazing how it worked.
Merise cut off, then shivered visibly. She glanced down, to the pouch on his saddle where he carried the
small statue of a man holding aloft a sphere. Rand fingered it, holding his reins loosely.
He did not flaunt the statuette. He simply carried it, but Merise and most of the others knew the nearly
unlimited power he could tap if he wished. It was a weapon greater than any other ever known. With it, he
might be able to annihilate the world itself. And it sat innocently on his saddle. That had an effect on
people.
"I ... No, I don't," she admitted. "Not always."
"Do you think that failures should be unpunished?" Rand asked, voice still soft. Why had he lost his
temper? These little annoyances were not worth his passion, his fury. If one bothered him too much, all he
needed do was snuff it out, like a candle.
A dangerous thought. Had that been his? Had it been Lews Therin's? Or ... had the thought come from . . .
elsewhere?
"Surely you have been too harsh," Merise said.
"Too harsh?" he asked. "Do you realize her mistake, Merise? Have you
considered what could have happened? What shouldhave happened?" "j__"
"The end of all things, Merise," he whispered. "The Dark One with control of the Dragon Reborn. The
two of us, fighting on the same side."
She fell silent, then said, "Yes. But mistakes, you yourself have made them. They might have ended in
similar disaster."
"I pay for my mistakes," he said, turning away. "I pay for them each day. Each hour. Each breath."
450
THE GATHERING STORM
"Enough." He did not yell the word. He spoke firmly, but quietly. He made her feel the full force of his
displeasure, his gaze seizing her own. She suddenly slumped in her saddle, looking up at him with wide
eyes.
There was a loud cracking noise from the side, followed by a sudden crash. Screams broke the air. Rand
turned with alarm. A balcony filled with onlookers had broken free of its supports and fallen to the street,
smashing like a barrel hit by a boulder. People groaned in pain, others called out for help. But the sounds
had come from both sides of the street. Rand frowned and turned; a second balcony—directly across from
the first— had fallen as well.
Merise paled, then turned her horse hastily, heading to help the wounded. Other Aes Sedai were already
hurrying to Heal those who had fallen.
Rand kneed Tai'daishar forward. That had not been caused by the Power, but by his ta'veren nature
changing probability. Wherever he visited, remarkable and random events occurred. Large numbers of
births, deaths, weddings and accidents. He had learned to ignore them.
He had rarely seen an occurrence quite so ... violent, however. Could he be sure it wasn't due to some
interaction with the new force? That unseen yet tempting well of power Rand had tapped, used and
enjoyed? Lews Therin thought what happened should have been impossible.
The original reason mankind had bored into the Dark One's prison had been power. A new source of
energy for channeling, like the One Power, but different. Unknown and strange, and potentially vast. That
source of power had turned out to be the Dark One himself.
Lews Therin whimpered.
Rand carried the access key with him for a reason. It linked him to one of the greatest sa'angreal ever
created. With that power and the aid of Nynaeve, Rand had cleansed saidin. The access key had allowed
him to tap an unimaginable river, a tempest as vast as the ocean. It had been the greatest thing he had ever
experienced.
Until the moment when he had used the unnamed power.
That other force called to him, sang to him, tempted him. So much power, so much divine wonder. But it
terrified him. He didn't dare touch it, not again.
And so he carried the key. He was not certain which of the two sources of energy was more dangerous,
but as long as both called to him, he was able to resist both. Like two people, both yelling for his
attention, they drowned one another out. For the moment.
INTO BANDAR EBAN
451
Beside, he would not be collared again. The access key wouldn't have helped him against Semirhage—no
amount of the One Power would aid a man if he were caught unaware—but perhaps it would in the future.
Once, he hadn't dared carry it for fear of what it offered. He no longer had room to indulge such
weakness.
The destination was easy to pick out; about five hundred Cairhienin armsmen were camped on the
grounds of a spacious, stately mansion. Aiel also had tents on the grounds—but they had also claimed
nearby buildings, and several nearby roofs. For the Aiel, camping in a place was essentially the same
thing as guarding it, as an Aiel resting was about twice as alert as a regular soldier on patrol. Rand had
left the larger bulk of his force outside the city; he would leave it to Dobraine and his stewards to find
quarters for Rand's men within the walls.
Rand halted Tai'daishar, then surveyed his new home.
We have no home, Lews Therin whispered. We destroyed it. Burned it away, melted to slag, like sand in afire.
The mansion was certainly a step up from the mostly log manor. Its large grounds were bordered by iron
gates. The flower beds were empty— flowers were hesitant to bloom this spring—but the lawn was
greener than most he had seen. Oh, it was mostly yellow and brown, but there were patches of green. The
groundskeepers were trying very hard, their efforts also manifest in the rows of Aryth yews cut in the
shapes of fanciful animals at the sides of the lawn.
The mansion itself was nearly a palace; there was one of those in the city, of course, belonging to the
king. But it was said to be inferior to the homes of the Council of Merchants. The banner flapping tall
atop the manor was of brilliant gold and black, and it proclaimed this to be the seat of House Chadmar.
Perhaps this Milisair had seen the departure of the others as an opportunity. If so, the only real
opportunity she'd gained was the chance to be taken by Rand.
The gates to the mansion grounds were open, and the Aiel in his entourage were already hurrying in,
joining clusters of society or clan members. It was irksome that they rarely waited on Rand's commands
or orders, but Aiel were Aiel. Any suggestion that they should wait was simply met with laughter, as if he
had made a grand joke. It would be easier to tame the wind itself than to get them to behave like
wetlanders.
That made him think of Aviendha. Where had she gone, so suddenly? He could feel her through the bond,
but it was faint—she was very far away. To the east. What business was there for her in the Waste?
452
THE GATHERING STORM
He shook his head. All women were difficult to understand, and an Aiel woman was tenfold more
incomprehensible. He had hoped that he would be able to spend some time with her, but she'd pointedly
avoided him. Well, perhaps it was Min's presence that kept her away. Perhaps he would be able to keep
himself from hurting her before death came. Better that Aviendha fled. His enemies didn't know of her
yet.
He urged Tai'daishar through the gates, riding up the drive to the manor house itself. He dismounted,
plucking the statuette from its strap and sliding it into the oversized pocket of his coat, which had been
quickly tailored to hold it. He handed his mount off to a groom—one of the manor house's own servants,
wearing a coat of green with a bright white shirt beneath, the collar and cuffs ruffled. The manor's
servants had already been apprised that Rand would be using the place as his own, now that its former
occupant had been . . . given his protection.
Dobraine joined him as he strode up the steps to the building. It was washed a crisp white, with wooden
pillars lining the front landing. He stepped inside the front doors. After living in several palaces, he was
still impressed. And disgusted. The opulence he found beyond the manor's front doors would never have
indicated that the people of the city starved. A line of very nervous servants stood in a row along the back
of the en-tryway. He could sense their fear. It was not every day that one's dwelling was annexed by the
Dragon Reborn himself.
Rand pulled off his riding glove by tucking his hand between his arm and his side, then slipped the glove
in his belt. "Where is she?" he asked, turning to the pair of Maidens—Beralna and Riallin—who were
keeping an eye on the servants.
"Second floor," one of the Maidens said. "Sipping tea while her hand shakes so much it threatens to break
the porcelain."
"We keep telling her she's not a prisoner," the other Maiden said. "She just can't leave."
Both of them found that amusing. Rand glanced to the side as Rhuarc joined him in the entryway. The
tall, fire-haired clan chief inspected the room, with its twinkling chandelier and ornamented vases. Rand
knew what he was thinking. "You may take the fifth," he said. "But only from the rich who live in this
district."
That wasn't how it was done; the Aiel should have been allowed the fifth from everyone. But Rhuarc did
not argue. What the Aiel had done in taking Bandar Eban hadn't really been a true conquest, though they
had fought gangs and thugs. Perhaps he shouldn't have given them anyINTO BANDAR EBAN
453
thing. But considering the mansions like this one, there was wealth to spare for the Aiel here, among the
wealthy at least.
The Maidens nodded, as if they had expected it, then loped off, probably to begin selecting their share.
Dobraine watched them with consternation. Cairhien had suffered the Aiel fifth on several occasions.
"I never can understand why you let them plunder like highwaymen who find the caravan guards asleep,"
Corele said, sweeping into the room with a smile. She raised an eyebrow at the impressive furnishings.
"And such a pretty place as this. Like letting soldiers trample spring buds, isn't it?"
Had she been sent to deal with him now that he'd shaken Merise? She met Rand's gaze in her pleasant
way, but he held it until she broke and turned away. He could remember a time when that had never
worked with Aes Sedai.
He turned to Dobraine. "You have done well here," he said to the lord. "Even if you haven't brought order
as widely as I wish. Gather your armsmen. Narishma has been instructed to provide a gateway for you to
Tear."
"Tear, my Lord?" Dobraine asked, surprised.
"Yes," Rand said. "Tell Darlin to stop pestering me with messengers. He is to keep gathering his forces;
I'll bring him to Arad Doman when I decide the time is right." That would be after he met with the
Daughter of the Nine Moons, which meeting would determine much.
Dobraine looked faintly crestfallen. Or was that just Rand's interpretation? Dobraine's expression rarely
changed. Was he imagining his hopes of this kingdom withering away? Was he plotting against Rand?
"Yes, my Lord. I assume I'm to leave immediately?"
Dobraine has never given us reason to doubt him. He even gathered support for Elayne to take the Sun Throne!
Rand had been away from him too long. Too long to trust him. But best to get him out for now; he'd had
too much time to get a foothold here, and Rand didn't trust any Cairhienin to avoid games with politics.
"Yes, you leave within the hour," Rand said, turning to walk up the graceful white stairs.
Dobraine saluted, stoic as always, and left out the front doorway. He obeyed immediately. No word of
complaint. He was a good man. Rand knew he was.
Light, what is happening to me? Rand thought. / need to trust some people. Don't I?
454
THE GATHERING STORM
Trust. . . ? Lews Therin whispered. Yes, perhaps we can trust him. He cannot channel. Light, the one we can't trust
at all is ourselves. . . .
Rand clenched his jaw. He would reward Dobraine with the kingdom if Alsalam couldn't be found.
Ituralde didn't want it.
The stairs rose straight and broad to a landing, then split and twisted up to the second floor, touching the
landing there on two separate sides. "I need an audience chamber," Rand said to the servants below, "and
a throne. Quickly."
Less than ten minutes later, Rand sat in a plushly decorated sitting room on the second floor, waiting for
the merchant Milisair Chadmar to be brought to him. His ornately carved white wood chair wasn't quite a
throne, but it would do. Perhaps Milisair had used it for audiences herself. The room did seem laid out
like a throne room, with a shallowly raised dais for him to sit on. Both dais and floor below were covered
in a textured green and red rug of fanciful design which matched the Sea Folk porcelain on pedestals at
the corner. Four broad windows behind him—each large enough to walk through—ushered overcast
sunlight into the room, and it fell on his back as he sat in the chair and leaned forward, one arm resting
across his knees. The figurine sat on the floor just before him.
Shortly, Milisair Chadmar walked through the doorway past the Aiel guards. She wore one of those
famous Domani dresses. It covered her body from neck to toe but was barely opaque and clung to every
curve—of which she had more than her fair share. The dress was of deep green, and she wore pearls at
her neck. Her dark hair, in tight curls, hung down past her shoulders, several locks framing her face. He
hadn't expected her to be so young, barely into her thirties.
It would be a shame to execute her.
Just one day, he thought to himself, and already I think of executing a woman for not agreeing to follow me. There
was a time when I could barely stand to execute deserving criminals. But he would do what must be done.
Milisair's deep curtsy seemed to imply that she accepted his authority. Or perhaps it was simply a means
of allowing him a better view of what the dress accentuated. A very Domani thing to do. Unfortunately
for her, he already had more problems with women than he knew how to handle.
"My Lord Dragon," Milisair said, rising from her curtsy. "How may I serve you?"
"When was the last communication you had from King Alsalam?"
INTO BANDAR EBAN
455
Rand asked. He pointedly didn't give her leave to sit in one of the room's chairs.
"The King?" she asked, surprised. "It has been weeks now."
"I will need to speak to the messenger who brought the latest message," Rand said.
"I am not certain he can be found." The woman sounded, flustered. "I do not keep track of the coming and
going of every messenger in the city, my Lord."
Rand leaned forward. "Do you lie to me?" he asked softly.
Her mouth opened, perhaps in shock at his bluntness. The Domani were no Cairhienin—who had a
seemingly inborn political craftiness— but they were a subtle people. Particularly the women.
Rand was neither subtle nor crafty. He was a sheepherder turned conqueror, and his heart was that of a
Two Rivers man, even if his blood was Aiel. Whatever politicking she was used to playing, it wouldn't
work on him. He had no patience for games.
"I . . ." Milisair said, staring at him. "My Lord Dragon. . . ."
What was she hiding? "What did you do with him?" Rand asked, making a guess. "The messenger?"
"He knew nothing of the King's location," Milisair said quickly, the words seeming to spill from her. "My
questioners were quite thorough."
"He is dead?"
"I. . . . No, my Lord Dragon."
"Then you will have him brought to me."
She paled further, and glanced to one side, perhaps reflexively seeking escape. "My Lord Dragon," she
said hesitantly, bringing her eyes back to him. "Now that you are here, perhaps the King will remain . . .
hidden. Perhaps there is no need to seek him out further."
She thinks he's dead too, Rand thought. It has made her take risks.
"There is need to find Alsalam," Rand said, "or at least discover what happened to him. We need to know
his fate so that you can choose a new king. That is how it happens, correct?"
"I'm certain you can be crowned quickly, my Lord Dragon," she said smoothly.
"I will not be king here," Rand said. "Bring me the messenger, Milisair, and perhaps you will live to see a
new king crowned. You are dismissed."
She hesitated, then curtsied again and withdrew. Rand caught a
456
THE GATHERING STORM
glimpse of Min standing outside with the Aiel, watching the merchant depart. He caught her eyes, and she
looked troubled. Had she seen any viewings about Milisair? He almost called to her, but she vanished,
walking away with a quick step. To the side, Alivia watched her go with curiosity. The former damane
had stayed aloof recently, as if biding her time, waiting until she could fulfill her destiny in helping Rand
die.
He found himself standing. That look in Min's eyes. Was she angry with him? Was she remembering his
hand at her neck, his knee pressing her against the floor?
He sat back down. Min could wait. "All right," he said, addressing the Aiel. "Bring me my scribes and
stewards, along with Rhuarc, Bael and whatever city worthies haven't fled the city or been killed in riots.
We need to go over the grain distribution plans."
The Aiel sent runners and Rand settled back into his chair. He would see the people fed, restore order and
gather the Council of Merchants. He would even see that a new king was chosen.
But he would also find out where Alsalam had gone. For there, his instincts said, was the best place to
find Graendal. It was his best lead.
If he did find her, he would see that she died by balefire, just like Semirhage. He would do what must be
done.
CHAPTER 30
Old Advice
Gawyn remembered very little of his father—the man had never been much of a father, to him at
least—but he did have a strong memory of a day in the Caemlyn palace gardens. Gawyn had been
standing beside a small pond, pitching pebbles into it. Taringail had walked past down the Rose March,
young Galad at his side.
The scene was still vivid in Gawyn's mind. The heavy scent of the roses in full bloom. The silver ripples
on the pond, the minnows scattering away from the miniature boulder he'd just tossed at them. He could
picture his father well. Tall, handsome, hair with a slight wave to it. Galad had been straight-backed and
somber even then. A few months later, Galad would rescue Gawyn from drowning in that very pond.
Gawyn could hear his father speak words that he'd never forgotten. Whatever else one thought of
Taringail Damodred, this bit of advice rang true. "There are two groups of people you should never trust,"
the man had been saying to Galad as they passed. "The first are pretty women. The second are Aes Sedai.
Light help you, son, if you ever have to face someone who is both." Light help you, son.
"I simply cannot see disobeying the Amyrlin's express will in this matter," Lelaine said primly, stirring
ink in the small jar on her desk. No man trusted beautiful women, for all their fascination with them. But
few realized
457
458
THE GATHERING STORM
what Taringail had said—that a pretty girl, like a coal that had cooled just enough to no longer look hot,
could be far, far more dangerous.
Lelaine wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty, particularly when she smiled. Slender and graceful, without a
speck of gray in her dark hair, an almond face with full lips. She looked up at him with eyes that were far
too comely to belong to a woman of her craftiness. And she seemed to know. She understood that she was
just attractive enough to draw attention, but not stunning enough to make men wary.
She was a woman of the most dangerous type. One who felt real, who made men think they might be able
to hold her attention. She wasn't pretty like Egwene, who made you want to spend time with her. This
woman's smile made you want to count the knives on your belt and in your boot, just to make sure none
of them had found their way into your back while you were distracted.
Gawyn stood beside her writing table, shaded by the straight-topped blue tent. He hadn't been invited to
sit, and he had not asked for the privilege. Talking to an Aes Sedai, particularly an important one,
required wits and sobriety. He'd rather stand. Perhaps it would keep him more alert.
"Egwene is trying to protect you," Gawyn said, controlling his frustration. "That's why she commanded
you to forgo a rescue. She obviously doesn't want you to risk yourselves. She is self-sacrificing to a
fault." If she weren't, he added in his mind, she'd never have let you all bully her into pretending to be the Amyrlin
Seat.
"She seems very confident of her safety," Lelaine said, dipping her pen into the ink. She began to write on
a piece of parchment; a note to someone. Gawyn politely didn't read over her shoulder, though he did
notice the calculated move on her part. He was unimportant enough that he couldn't demand her full
attention. He chose not to acknowledge the insult. Trying to bully Bryne hadn't worked; it would be even
less effective with this woman.
"She's trying to put your worries at ease, Lelaine Sedai," he said instead.
"I am a fair judge of people, young Trakand. I do not think she feels she is in danger." She shook her
head. Her perfume smelled of apple blossoms.
"I do not doubt you," he replied. "But perhaps if I knew how it is you communicate with her, I could
judge better. If I could—"
"You have been warned not to ask about that, child," Lelaine said in her soft, melodious voice. "Leave
things of the Aes Sedai to the Aes Sedai."
Virtually the same answer each sister gave when he asked how they
OLD ADVICE
459
communicated with Egwene. He clenched his jaw in frustration. What had he expected? It involved using
the One Power. After all his time in the White Tower, he still had little idea of what the Power could and
couldn't do.
"Regardless," Lelaine continued, "the Amyrlin thinks herself quite safe. What we've discovered in
Shemerin's story only reinforces and corroborates what Egwene has told us. Elaida is so mad with power
that she doesn't consider the rightful Amyrlin a threat."
There was more she wasn't saying. Gawyn could tell it. He could never get a straight answer from them
regarding what Egwene's status was currently. He'd heard rumors that she'd been imprisoned, no longer
allowed to roam free as a novice. But getting information from an Aes Sedai was about as easy as
churning rocks into butter!
Gawyn took a breath. He couldn't lose his temper. If he did that, he'd never get Lelaine to listen. And he
needed her. Bryne wouldn't move without Aes Sedai authorization, and as far as Gawyn had been able to
tell, his best chances of gaining it came from Lelaine or Romanda. Everyone seemed to listen to one of
the two or the other.
Fortunately, Gawyn had found that he could play them off one another. A visit to Romanda almost always
prompted an invitation from Lelaine. Of course, the reason they were eager to see him in the first place
had very little to do with Egwene. No doubt the conversation would move in that direction very soon.
"Perhaps you are right, Lelaine Sedai," he said, trying a different tack. "Perhaps Egwene does believe
herself to be safe. But isn't there a possibility that she is wrong? You can't honestly believe that Elaida
will let a woman who claimed to be Amyrlin wander around the White Tower free? This is obviously just
a means of showing off a captured rival before executing her."
"Perhaps," Lelaine said, continuing to write. She had a flowing, ornate hand. "But must I not uphold the
Amyrlin, even if she is misguided?"
Gawyn gave no response. Of course she could disobey the will of the Amyrlin. He knew enough of Aes
Sedai politics to understand it was done all the time. But saying that would accomplish nothing.
"Still," Lelaine said absently. "Perhaps I can bring a motion before the Hall. We might be able to persuade
the Amyrlin to listen to a new kind of plea. We shall see if I can formulate a new argument."
"We shall see" or "Perhaps we can" or "I will consider what to do." Never a firm commitment; every
half-offer came smeared liberally with
460
THE GATHERING STORM
goose grease for easy escape. Light, but he was growing weary of Aes Sedai answers!
Lelaine looked up at him, favoring him with a smile. "Now, as I have agreed to do something for you,
perhaps you will be willing to offer me something. Great deeds are rarely accomplished without the aid of
many partners, you may know."
Gawyn sighed. "Speak your needs, Aes Sedai."
"Your sister has, by all reports, made a very admirable showing for herself in Andor," Lelaine said, as if
she hadn't said nearly the exact same thing the last three times she'd met with Gawyn. "She did have to
step on a few toes to secure her throne, however. What do you think her policy will be regarding House
Traemane's fruit orchards? Under your mother, the tax assessments on the land were very favorable
toward Traemane. Will Elayne revoke this special privilege, or will she try to use it as honey to soothe
those who stood against her?"
Gawyn stifled another sigh. It always came back to Elayne. He was convinced that neither Lelaine nor
Romanda had any real interest in rescuing Egwene—they were too pleased with their increased power in
her absence. No, they met with Gawyn because of the new queen on the Lion Throne.
He had no idea why an Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah would care about apple orchard taxation rates. Lelaine
wouldn't be looking for monetary gain; that wasn't the Aes Sedai way. But she would want leverage, a
means of securing a favorable connection with the Andoran noble houses. Gawyn resisted answering.
Why help this woman? What good was it doing?
But yet . . . could he be certain she wouldn't work for Egwene's release? If he stopped making these
meetings useful to Lelaine, would she discontinue them? Would he find himself shut out of his one source
of influence—no matter how small—in the camp?
"Well," he said, "I think that my sister will be more strict than my mother was. She always has thought
that the favorable position of the orchard growers was no longer justified."
He could see that Lelaine subtly began taking notes on what he said at the bottom of her parchment. Was
that the real reason for getting out the ink and quill?
He had no choice but to answer as honestly as he could, though he had to be careful not to let himself get
pressed for too much information. His connection to Elayne was the only thing he had with which to barOLD ADVICE
461
gain, and he had to ration his usefulness to stretch it long. It irked him. Elayne wasn't a bargaining chip,
she was his sister!
But it was all he had.
"I see," Lelaine said, "and what of the northern cherry orchards? They haven't been particularly
productive lately, and. . . ."
Shaking his head, Gawyn left the tent. Lelaine had prodded him about Andoran taxation rates for the
better part of an hour. And, once again, Gawyn was uncertain if he'd achieved anything useful in his visit.
He'd never get Egwene free at this rate!
As always, a novice in white waited outside the tent to escort him from the inner camp. This time the
novice was a short, plump woman who looked more than a few years too old to have taken up the white.
Gawyn allowed the woman to lead him through the Aes Sedai camp, trying to pretend that she was just a
guide, rather than a guard to see that he left as instructed. Bryne was right; the women did not like
unnecessary bodies—soldiers in particular—wandering around their neat little imitation White Tower of a
village. He passed bustling groups of white-clad women crossing walkways, watching him with the faint
distrust the friendliest of people often gave an outsider. He passed Aes Sedai, universally self-assured
whether they wore rich silk or stiff wool. He passed some groups of worker women, far more neat than
those out in the soldier camp. They walked with an almost Aes Sedai air themselves, as if they gained a
measure of authority by being allowed into the real camp.
All these groups crisscrossed through an open square of trampled weeds that formed the common area.
The most confusing thing he had discovered in this camp had to do with Egwene. More and more, he was
coming to realize that the people here really did see her as Amyrlin. She wasn't simply a decoy set up to
draw ire, nor was she a calculated insult, meant to rile Elaida. Egwene was Amyrlin to them.
Obviously, she had been chosen because the rebels wanted someone easy to control. But they didn't treat
her as a puppet—both Lelaine and Romanda spoke of her with respect. There was an advantage to
Egwene's absence, since it created a void of power. Therefore, they accepted Egwene as a source of
authority. Was he the only one who remembered that she'd been an Accepted just months ago?
She was in over her head. However, she'd also impressed the people in
462
THE GATHERING STORM
this camp. It was like his mother's own rise to power in Andor many years before.
But why did she refuse to allow a rescue? Traveling had been rediscovered—from what he'd heard,
Egwene herself had rediscovered it! He needed to talk to her. Then he could judge if her unwillingness to
escape came from a fear of putting others in danger, or if it was something else.
He unhobbled Challenge from the post at the border between Aes Sedai and army camps, nodded farewell
to his novice handler, then swung into the saddle, checking the position of the sun. He turned his mount
east along a pathway between army tents, and set out in a quick trot. He hadn't been lying when he'd told
Lelaine he had another appointment; he'd promised to meet Bryne. Of course, Gawyn had set up the
meeting because he'd known he might need a means of escaping Lelaine. Bryne had taught him that: It
didn't show fear to prepare your retreat ahead of time. It was just plain good strategy.
Well over an hour's ride later, Gawyn found his old teacher where they'd planned to meet: one of the
outlying guard posts. Bryne was conducting an inspection not unlike the one Gawyn had used to mask his
escape from the Younglings. The general was just mounting his big-nosed bay gelding as Gawyn trotted
up, crossing the scrub grass and wan spring weeds. The guard post sat in a hollow on the side of a gentle
incline, with a good view of the approach from the north. The soldiers stood respectfully in their general's
presence, and they veiled their hostility toward Gawyn. It had gotten around that he'd led the force which
had raided them so successfully. A strategist like Bryne could respect Gawyn for his skill, no matter that
they had been on opposite sides, but these men had seen colleagues killed by Gawyn's troops.
Bryne turned his horse to the side, nodding to Gawyn. "You're later than you said you'd be, son."
"But not later than you expected?" Gawyn said, pulling Challenge up.
"Not at all," the sturdy man said, smiling. "You were visiting Aes Sedai."
Gawyn grinned at that, and the two turned their mounts and began to cross the open hills toward the
north. Bryne planned to inspect all of the guard posts on the western side of Tar Valon, a duty that would
involve a lot of riding, so Gawyn had offered to accompany him. There was blessed little else to do with
his time; few of the soldiers would spar with him, and those who would tried just a little too hard to cause
an "acciOLD ADVICE
463
dent." The Aes Sedai would only suffer so much of his prodding, and Gawyn didn't have a mind for the
game of stones lately. He was too on edge, worried about Egwene and frustrated at his lack of progress.
The truth was, he'd never been very good at the game in the first place—not like his mother. Bryne had
insisted that Gawyn practice it anyway as a method of learning battlefield strategy.
The hillsides were scraggly with yellow weeds and larksbrush, with its tiny, faintly blue leaves and
gnarled branches. There should have been wildflowers coating the hills in patches, but not a single one
bloomed. The landscape felt sickly—yellow in patches, whitish blue in others, with generous helpings of
dead brown scrub that hadn't regrown after the harsh winter.
"And are you going to tell me how the meeting went?" Bryne asked as they rode, a squad of soldiers
following behind as an honor guard.
"I'll bet you have guessed that already as well."
"Oh, I don't know," Bryne said. "It is an unusual time, and strange events are common. Perhaps Lelaine
decided to forgo scheming for a time and actually listen to your pleas."
Gawyn grimaced. "I think you'd sooner find a Trolloc who has taken up weaving than an Aes Sedai who
has given up scheming."
"I do believe that you were warned," Bryne said.
There was no argument that Gawyn could make, so they simply rode in silence for a short time, passing
the distant river to the right. Beyond that, the tower and roofs of Tar Valon. A prison.
"We'll eventually need to discuss that group of soldiers you left behind, Gawyn," Bryne said suddenly,
eyes forward.
"I don't see what there is to discuss," Gawyn said, which wasn't completely truthful. He had suspicions of
what Bryne would ask, and he didn't look forward to the conversation.
Bryne shook his head. "I'll need information, lad. Locations, troop counts, equipment lists. I know you
were staging from one of the villages to the east, but which one? How many are in your force, and what
kind of support are Elaida's Aes Sedai giving them?"
Gawyn kept his eyes forward. "I came to help Egwene. Not to betray those who trusted me."
"You already betrayed them."
"No," Gawyn said firmly. "I abandoned them, but I have not betrayed them. And I do not intend to."
"And you expect me to let a potential advantage die untaken?" Bryne
464
THE GATHERING STORM
asked, turning to him. "What you have in that brain of yours could save lives."
"Or cost lives," Gawyn said, "if you look at it from the other side."
"Don't make this difficult, Gawyn."
"Or what?" Gawyn asked. "You'll put me to the question?"
"You'd suffer for them?"
"They are my men," Gawyn said simply. Or, at least, they were. Either way, he had had enough of being
pushed around by circumstances and wars. He would give no loyalty to the White Tower, but neither
would he offer it to these rebels. Egwene and Elayne held his heart and his honor. And if he couldn't give
it to them, he would give it to Andor—and the entire world—by hunting down Rand al'Thor and seeing
him dead.
Rand al'Thor. Gawyn didn't believe Bryne's defense of the man. Oh, he believed that Bryne meant what
he said—but he was mistaken. It could happen to the best of people, taken in by the charisma of a creature
like al'Thor. He had fooled Elayne herself. The only way to help any of them would be to expose this
Dragon and dispose of him.
He looked over at Bryne, who turned away. He was still thinking about the Younglings, likely. It was
unlikely that Bryne would put Gawyn to the question. Gawyn knew the general, and his sense of honor,
too well. It wouldn't happen. But Bryne might decide to imprison Gawyn. Perhaps it would be wise to
offer him something.
"They are youths, Bryne," Gawyn said.
Bryne frowned.
"Youths," Gawyn repeated. "Barely past their training. They belong on the sparring field, not on the
battlefield. Their hearts are good, and their skills sound, but they are much less a threat to you now that I
am gone. I was the one who knew your strategy. Without me, they will have a much harder time of their
raids. I suspect that if they continue to strike, they shall have their day with the butcher soon enough. No
need for me to hasten them along."
"Very well," Bryne replied. "I will wait. But if their raids continue to be effective, you will hear this
question from me again."
Gawyn nodded. The best thing he could do for the Younglings would be to help end this division between
the rebels and the loyalists. But that seemed far beyond the scope of what he could accomplish. Perhaps
after he freed Egwene he could think of some way to help. Light! They couldn't really be intending to go
to blows, could they? The skirmish following Siuan Sanche's fall had been bad enough. What would
OLD ADVICE
465
happen if armies met here, just outside of Tar Valon? Aes Sedai against Aes Sedai, Warder fighting
Warder on a battlefield? A disaster.
"It can't come to that," he found himself saying.
Bryne looked at Gawyn as their horses continued across the field.
"You can't attack, Bryne," Gawyn said. "A siege is one thing. But what will you do if they order you to
mount an assault?"
"What I always do," Bryne said. "Obey."
"But—"
"I gave my word, Gawyn."
"And how many deaths is that word worth? Assaulting the White Tower would be a disaster. No matter
how slighted these rebel Aes Sedai may feel, there will be no reconciliation if it happens by the sword."
"That's not our decision," Bryne said. He glanced at Gawyn, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"What?" Gawyn asked.
"I'm wondering why it matters to you. I thought you were just here for Egwene."
"I. . . ." Gawyn floundered.
"Who are you, Gawyn Trakand?" Bryne asked, prodding further. "What are you your allegiances, really?"
"You know me better than most, Gareth."
"I know who you were supposed to be," Bryne said. "First Prince of the Sword, trained by Warders but
bonded to no woman."
"And that's not what I am?" Gawyn asked testily.
"Peace, son," Bryne said. "This wasn't meant to be an insult. Just an observation. I know you were never
as single-minded as your brother. I suppose I should have seen this in you."
Gawyn turned toward the aging general. What was the man talking about?
Bryne sighed. "It's a thing most soldiers never face, Gawyn. Oh, they may consider it, but they don't let it
torment them. This question is for someone else, someone higher up."
"What question?" Gawyn asked, perplexed.
"Choosing a side," Bryne said. "And, once you've picked one, deciding if you made the right decision.
The foot soldiers don't have to make this choice, but those of us who lead . . . yes, I can see it in you. That
skill of yours with the sword is no small gift. Where do you use it?"
"For Elayne," Gawyn said quickly.
"As you do now?" Bryne asked with amusement.
466
THE GATHERING STORM
"Well, once I save Egwene."
"And if Egwene won't go?" Bryne asked. "I know that look in your eyes, lad. I also know some small bit
about Egwene al'Vere. She won't leave this battlefield until a victor has been chosen."
"I'll take her away," Gawyn said. "Back to Andor."
"And will you force her to go?" Bryne asked. "As you forced your way into my camp? Will you become a
bully and a footpad, remarkable only because of your ability to kill or punish those who disagree with
you?"
Gawyn didn't answer.
"Whom to serve?" Bryne said, thoughtful. "Our own skill frightens us, sometimes. What is the ability to
kill if one has no outlet for it? A wasted talent? The pathway to becoming a murderer? The power to
protect and preserve is daunting. So you look for someone to give the skill to, someone who will use it
wisely. The need to make a decision chews at you, even after you've made it. I see the question more in
younger men. We old hounds, we're just happy to have a place by the hearth. If someone tells us to fight,
we don't want to shake things up too much. But the young men . . . they wonder."
"Did you question, once?" Gawyn asked.
"Yes," Bryne said. "More than once. I wasn't Captain-General during the Aiel War, but I was a
rank-captain. I wondered then, many times."
"How could you question your side during the Aiel war, of all things?" Gawyn said, frowning. "They
came to slaughter."
"They didn't come for us," Bryne said. "They just wanted the Cairhienin. Of course, that wasn't so easy to
see at first, but truth be told, some of us wondered. Laman deserved his death. Why should we die to
stand in the way of it? Maybe more of us should have asked the question."
"Then what's the answer?" Gawyn asked. "Where do you put your trust? Whom do I serve?"
"I don't know," Bryne said frankly.
"Then why ask in the first place?" Gawyn snapped, pulling his horse up short.
Bryne reined in his animal, turning back. "I don't know the answer because there isn't one. At least, each
person's answer is their own. When I was young, I fought for honor. Eventually, I realized that there was
little honor to be found in killing, and I found that I had changed. Then I fought because I served your
mother. I trusted her. When she failed me, I began to wonder again. What of all those years of service?
What of the men I'd killed in her name? What did any of that mean?"
OLD ADVICE
467
He turned and flicked his reins, moving again. Gawyn hasted Challenge to catch up.
"You wonder why I'm here, instead of in Andor?" Bryne asked. "It's because I can't let go. It's because the
world is changing, and I need to be part of it. It's because once everything in Andor was taken from me, I
needed a new place for my loyalty. The Pattern brought me this opportunity."
"And you chose it just because it was there?"
"No," Bryne said. "I picked it because I'm a fool." He met Gawyn's eyes. "But I stayed because it was
right. That which has been broken must be made whole, and I've seen what a terrible leader can do to a
kingdom. Elaida can't be allowed to pull this world down with her."
Gawyn started.
"Yes," Bryne said. "I've actually come to believe them. Fool women. But by the Light, Gawyn, they're
right. What I'm doing is right. She's right."
"Who?"
Bryne shook his head, muttering. "Bloody woman."
Egwene? Gawyn wondered.
"My motives aren't important to you, son," Bryne said. "You're not one of my soldiers. But you need to
make some decisions. In the days coming, you'll need to have a side and you'll need to know why you've
chosen it. That's all I'll say on the matter."
He kicked his horse into a faster gait. In the distance, Gawyn could pick out another guard post. He hung
back as Bryne and his soldiers approached it.
Pick a side. What if Egwene wouldn't go with him?
Bryne was right. Something was coming. You could smell it in the air, feel it in the weak sunlight that
managed to shoulder its way through the clouds. You could sense it, distantly, in the north, crackling like
unseen energy on that dark horizon.
War, battles, conflicts, changes. Gawyn felt as if he didn't know what the different sides were. Let alone
which one to pick for himself.
CHAPTER 31
A Promise to Lews Therin
Cadsuane kept her cloak on, hood up, despite the mugginess that strained her ability to "ignore" the heat.
She dared not lower the hood or remove the cloak. AlThor's words had been specific; if he saw her face,
she would be executed. She wouldn't risk her life to prevent a few hours of discomfort, even if she
thought al'Thor was safely back in his newly appropriated mansion. The boy often appeared where he
wasn't expected or wanted.
She wasn't about to let him exile her, of course. The more power a man held, the more likely he was to be
an idiot with it. Give a man one cow, and he'd care for it with concern, using its milk to feed his family.
Give a man ten cows, and he was likely to think himself rich—then let all ten starve for lack of attention.
She clomped down the boardwalk, passing bannered buildings like boxes stacked atop one another. She
wasn't particularly pleased to be in Bandar Eban again. She had nothing against the Domani; she just
preferred cities that weren't so crowded. And with the problems in the countryside, the place was more
packed than normal. Refugees continued to trickle in despite the rumors regarding al'Thor's arrival in the
city. She passed a cluster of them in the alley to her left, a family, faces darkened by dirt.
Al'Thor promised food. That brought hungry mouths, none eager to return to their farms, even after they
were given food. The countryside
468
A PROMISE TO LEWS THERIN
469
was still too chaotic, and the food here too new. The refugees couldn't be certain the grain wouldn't just
spoil, as so much did recently. No, they stayed, packing the city, crowding it.
Cadsuane shook her head, continuing down the boardwalk, those wretched clogs clattering against the
wood. The city was famous for these long, sturdy walkways, which allowed foot traffic to avoid the mud
of the streets. Cobbles would have fixed that, but the Domani often prided themselves on being different
from the rest of the world. Indigestibly spicy food with dreadful eating utensils. A capital filled with
frivolous banners, set on a huge port. Scandalous dresses on the women; long, thin mustaches on the men
and an almost Sea Folk-like fondness for earrings.
Hundreds of those banners flapped in the wind as Cadsuane passed, and she gritted her teeth against the
temptation to pull off her hood and feel the wind on her face. Light-cursed ocean air. Normally, Bandar
Eban was chilly and rainy. Rarely had she felt it this warm. The humidity was dreadful either way.
Rational people stayed inland!
She made her way down several streets, crossing through the mud at intersections. That was the
irredeemable flaw of boardwalks, in her opinion. The locals knew which streets to cut across and which
ones were deep in mud, but Cadsuane had to just tramp across wherever she could. That's why she'd
hunted out these clogs, built after the Tairen style, to go over her shoes. It had been surprisingly hard to
find a merchant selling them; the Domani obviously had little interest in them, and most people she
passed either went barefoot in the mud or knew where to cross and keep from soiling their shoes.
Halfway down to the docks, she finally reached her destination. The fine banner flapping out front
proclaimed the inn's name as The Wind's Favor, beating against an inlaid wood front. Cadsuane made her
way inside and took off the clogs in the muddy entryway before stepping up into the inn proper. There,
finally, she allowed herself to lower her hood. If al'Thor randomly happened to visit this particular inn,
then he'd just have to hang her.
The inn's common room was decorated more like a king's dining hall than a tavern. White tablecloths
coated the tables, and the varnished wooden floor was mopped to a shine. The walls were hung with
tasteful still-life paintings—a bowl of fruit on the wall behind the bar, a vase of flowers on the wall
opposite it. The bottles on the ledge behind the bar were almost all wine, very few bottles of brandy or
other liquors.
The slender innkeeper, Quillin Tasil, was a tall, oval-faced Andoran
47°
THE GATHERING STORM
man. Thinning on top with dark, short hair at the sides of his head, he wore a full beard, trimmed short,
which was almost all gray. His fine lavender coat had white ruffled cuffs peeking out from the sleeves,
but he wore an innkeeper's apron over the front. He generally had had good information, but was also
willing to look into inquiries for her among his associates. A very useful man indeed.
He smiled at Cadsuane as she entered, wiping his hands on a towel. He gestured her toward a table, then
went back to the bar to fetch some wine. Cadsuane settled herself as two men on the other side of the
room began to argue loudly. The other patrons—only four, two women at a table on the far side, two
more men at the bar—paid the argument no heed. One couldn't spend much time in Arad Doman without
learning to ignore the frequent flares in temper. Domani men were as hotheaded as volcanoes, and most
people agreed that Domani women were the reason. These two men did not turn to a duel, as would have
been common in Ebou Dar. Instead, they shouted for a few moments, then began to agree with each other,
then insisted on buying one another wine. Fights were common; bloodshed infrequent. Injuries were bad
for business.
Quillin approached, bearing a cup of wine—it would be one of his finest vintages. She never requested
such from him, but never complained either.
"Mistress Shore," he said with his affable voice, "I wish I'd known earlier that you were back in town!
The first I heard of it was your letter!"
Cadsuane took the offered cup. "I am not accustomed to giving reports on my whereabouts to every
acquaintance, Master Tasil."
"Of course not, of course not," he said, and seemed completely unof-fended at her sharp response. She'd
never been able to get a rise out of him. That had always made her curious.
"The inn seems to be doing well," she said politely, causing him to turn and look over his few patrons.
They seemed uncomfortable to be sitting at immaculate tables atop a gleaming floor. Cadsuane wasn't
certain if it was the intimidating cleanliness that kept people away from The Wind's Favor, or if it was
Quillin's insistence on never hiring gleemen or musicians to perform. He claimed they spoiled the
atmosphere. As she watched, he noticed that a new patron entered, tracking in mud. She could see
Quillin's fingers itching to go scrub the floor.
"You there," Quillin called to the man. "Scrape your shoes before coming in, if you please."
The man froze, frowning, but went back to do as instructed. Quillin
A PROMISE TO LEWS THERIN
471
sighed and moved over to sit at her table. "Frankly, Mistress Shore, it gets a little too busy here lately for
my tastes. Can't keep track of all my patrons sometimes! People go without drink, waiting for me to get to
them."
"You could hire help," she noted. "A serving girl or two."
"What? And let them have all the fun?" He said it in all seriousness.
Cadsuane took a sip of her wine. An excellent vintage indeed, perhaps expensive enough that an inn—no
matter how splendid—shouldn't have had it readily available behind the bar. She sighed. Quillin's
Do-mani wife was one of the most accomplished silk merchants in the city; many Sea Folk vessels sought
her out personally to trade with her. Quillin had kept accounts for his wife's business for some twenty
years before he had retired, both of them wealthy.
And what did he do with it? Open an inn. It had apparently always been a dream of his. Cadsuane had
learned long ago to stop questioning the odd penchants of people with too much free time.
"What news of the city, Quillin?" she asked, sliding a small bag of coins across the table toward him.
"Mistress, you offend," he said, raising his hands. "I couldn't take your coin!"
She raised an eyebrow. "I have little patience for games today, Master Tasil. If you don't want it yourself,
then give it to the poor. Light knows there are enough of those in the city these days."
He sighed, but reluctantly pocketed the purse. Perhaps that was why his common room was often empty;
an innkeeper who had no regard for money was a strange beast. Many of the common men would find
Quillin as discomforting as the immaculate floor and tasteful decorations.
Quillin was, however, very good for information. His wife shared her gossip with him. With her face, he
obviously knew she was Aes Sedai. Namine—his eldest daughter—had gone to the White Tower,
eventually choosing the Brown and settling into the library there. A Domani librarian was nothing
unusual—the Terhana library in Bandar Eban was one of the greatest in the world. However, Namine's
casual, yet keen, understanding of current events had been enough of a curiosity that Cadsuane had
followed the connection, hoping to discover well-placed parents. Ties such as a daughter in the White
Tower often made people amiable toward other Aes Sedai. That had led her to Quillin. Cadsuane didn't
trust him entirely, but she was fond of him.
"What news of the city?" Quillin asked. Honestly, what innkeeper
472
THE GATHERING STORM
wore a silk embroidered vest beneath his apron? No wonder people found the inn strange. "Where should
I start? There has almost been too much to keep track of lately!"
"Start with Alsalam," Cadsuane said, sipping her wine. "When was he last seen?"
"By credible witnesses, or by hearsay?"
"Tell me both."
"There have been lesser windborn and merchants who claim to have received personal communication
from the King as recently as a week ago, my Lady, but I regard such claims with skepticism. Very soon
after the King's . . . hiatus began you could find forged letters claiming to dictate his wishes. I have seen
some few sets of orders with my own eyes that I trust—or, at least, I trust the seal on them—but the King
himself? I'd say it has been almost half a year since anyone I can vouch for has seen him."
"His whereabouts, then?"
The innkeeper shrugged, looking apologetic. "For a while, we were certain that the Council of Merchants
was behind the disappearance. They rarely let the King out of their sight, and with the troubles to the
south, we all assumed they'd taken His Majesty to safety."
"But?"
"But my sources," that meant his wife, "aren't convinced any longer. The Council of Merchants has been
too disorganized lately, each member trying to keep their own chunk of Arad Doman from unraveling. If
they'd had the King, they'd have revealed him by now."
Cadsuane tapped the side of her cup with a fingernail, annoyed. Could there be truth, then, to the al'Thor
boy's belief that one of the Forsaken had Alsalam? "What else?"
"There are Aiel in the city, Lady," Quillin said, scrubbing at an invisible spot on the tabletop.
She gave him a flat stare. "I hadn't noticed."
He chuckled. "Yes, yes, obvious, I suppose. But the exact number in the area is twenty-four thousand.
Some say the Dragon Reborn has them here just to prove his power and authority. After all, who ever
heard of Aiel distributing food? Half the poor in the city are too frightened to go to the handouts, for fear
the Aiel have used some of their poisons on the grain."
"Aiel poisons?" She'd never heard that particular rumor before.
A PROMISE TO LEWS THERIN
473
Quillin nodded. "Some claim that as the reason for the food spoilages, my Lady."
"But food was spoiling in the country long before the Aiel arrived, wasn't it?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Quillin said. "But it can be hard to remember things like that in the face of so much
bad grain. Besides, spoilage has grown much worse since the Lord Dragon arrived."
Cadsuane covered her frown by taking a sip of wine. It had grown worse with al'Thor's arrival? Was that
just rumor, or was it the truth? She lowered her cup. "And the other strange occurrences in the city?" she
asked carefully, to see what she could discover.
"You've heard of those, then?" Quillin said, leaning in. "People don't like to speak of them, of course, but
my sources hear things. Stillborn children, men dying from falls that should barely have caused a bruise,
stones toppling from buildings and striking women dead as they trade. Dangerous times, my Lady. I hate
to pass on mere hearsay, but I've seen the numbers myself!"
The events were not, in themselves, unexpected. "Of course, there are the balances."
"Balances?"
"Marriages on the rise," she said, waving a hand, "children who encounter wild beasts but escape
unharmed, unexpected fortunes discovered beneath the floorboards of a pauper's home. That sort of
thing."
"That certainly would be nice," Quillin said, chuckling. "We can wish and hope, my Lady."
"You've heard no such stories?" Cadsuane asked with surprise.
"No, my Lady. I can ask around, if you wish."
"Do so." Al'Thor was ta'veren, but the Pattern was a thing of balance. For every accidental death caused
by Rand's presence in a city, there was always a miraculous survival.
What did it mean if that was breaking down?
She went on to specific questions for Quillin, the whereabouts of the members of the merchant council at
the top of the list. She knew that the al'Thor boy wanted to capture them all; if she could get information
about their locations that he didn't have, it could be very useful. She also asked Quillin to find out the
economic situation of the other major Do-mani cities and supply any news of rebel factions or Taraboners
striking across the border.
474
THE GATHERING STORM
As she left the inn—reluctantly raising her hood and stepping back into the muggy afternoon—she found
that Quillin's words had left her with more questions than she'd had when she'd come.
It looked like rain. Of course, that was always the way it looked lately. Overcast and dreary, with a gray
sky and clouds that bled together in a uniform haze. At least it had actually rained the previous night; for
some reason, that made the overcast sky more bearable. As if it were more natural, allowing her to
pretend that the perpetual gloom wasn't another sign of the Dark One's stirring. He had withered the
people with a drought, he had frozen them with a sudden winter, and now he seemed determined to
destroy them through sheer melancholy.
Cadsuane shook her head, tapping her clogs to make sure they were sturdily affixed, then walked onto the
muddied boardwalk and made her way down toward the docks. She would see just how accurate these
rumors about spoilage were. Had the strange events surrounding alThor really grown more destructive, or
was she just allowing herself to find what she feared?
Al'Thor. She had to face the truth: she had bungled her handling of him. Of course, she hadn't made any
mistakes with the male a'dam, whatever al'Thor claimed. Whomever had stolen the collar had been
exceedingly powerful and crafty. Anyone capable of such a feat could just as easily have fetched another
male a'dam from the Seanchan. They were likely to have plenty of them.
No, the a'dam had been taken from her own room in an effort to sow distrust; of that she was certain.
Perhaps, even, the theft had been intended to mask something else: the returning of the figurine to al'Thor.
His temperament had become so dark, there was no telling what destruction he could cause with that.
The poor, foolish boy. He should never have had to suffer collaring at the hands of one of the Forsaken;
that would only remind him of the times he had been beaten and caged by Aes Sedai. It would make her
job more difficult. If not impossible.
That was the question she had to face now. Was he beyond saving? Was it too late to change him? And if
it was, what—if anything—could she do? The Dragon Reborn had to meet the Dark One at Shayol Ghul.
If he did not, all was lost. But what if allowing him to meet the Dark One would be equally disastrous?
No. She refused to believe that their battle had already been lost.
A PROMISE TO LEWS THERIN
475
There had to be something that could be done to change al'Thor's direction. But what?
Al'Thor hadn't reacted like most peasants suddenly granted power; he hadn't grown selfish or petty. He
hadn't hoarded wealth, nor had he struck with childish vengeance against any who had slighted him in his
youth. Indeed, there had actually been a wisdom to many of his decisions— the ones that didn't involve
gallivanting into danger.
Cadsuane continued down the boardwalk, passing Domani refugees in their incongruously bright
clothing. She occasionally had to step around clusters of them sitting on the damp logs, an impromptu
camp growing up around the mouth to an alleyway or the unused side door of a building. None made way
for her. What good was an Aes Sedai face if you covered it up? This city was just too packed.
Cadsuane slowed near a row of pennants which spelled out the name of the dock registrar. The docks
themselves were just ahead, lined by twice as many Sea Folk ships as before, many of them rakers, the
largest of Sea Folk vessels. More than a few were converted Seanchan ships, likely stolen from Ebou Dar
during the mass escape a short while back.
The docks were crowded with people eager for grain. The crowds jostled and yelled, not looking at all
worried about the "poisons" Quillin had mentioned. Of course, starvation could overcome a great number
of fears. Dock workers controlled the crowds; among them were Aiel in brown cadin'sor, holding their
spears and glaring as only Aiel could. There also appeared to be a fair number of merchants on the docks,
probably hoping to secure some of the handouts for storage and later sale.
The docks looked much as they had every day since al'Thor's arrival. What had made her pause? There
seemed to be a prickling sensation on her back, as if. ...
She spun to find a procession riding down the muddy street. Al'Thor sat proudly on his dark stallion, his
clothing colored to match, with only a little red embroidery. As usual, he led a score of soldiers, advisors
and a growing number of Domani sycophants.
She seemed to encounter him very frequently traveling the streets. She forced herself to hold her ground,
not shying away into an alley, though she did pull her hood down a little lower to shade her face. Al'Thor
gave no sign that he recognized her as he rode just in front of her. He seemed troubled by his own
thoughts, as he often was. She wanted to yell at him that he needed to move more quickly, secure the
crown of
476
THE GATHERING STORM
Arad Doman and move on, but she held her tongue. She would not let her nearly three hundred years of
life end with an execution at the hands of the Dragon Reborn!
His retinue passed. As before, when she turned away from him, she thought she saw . . . from the corner
of her eye . . . darkness around him, like too much shade from the clouds above. Whenever she looked
directly at him, it vanished—in fact, whenever she tried to see it, she couldn't make it out. It only
appeared when she saw him indirectly, and by happenstance.
She had never read or heard of such a thing in all of her years. To see it around the Dragon Reborn
terrified her. This had grown bigger than her pride, much larger than her failures. No. It had always been
larger than she was. Guiding al'Thor wasn't like guiding a galloping horse, it was like trying to guide a
deep sea tempest itself!
She would never be able to change his course. He didn't trust Aes Sedai, and with good reason. He didn't
seem to trust anyone, save perhaps for Min—but Min had resisted every attempt that Cadsuane had made
at involving her. The girl was almost as bad as al'Thor.
Visiting the docks was useless. Talking to her informants was useless. If she didn't do something soon,
they were all doomed. But what? She leaned back against the building behind her, triangular banners
blowing in front of her, pointing north. Toward the Blight and al'Thor's ultimate destiny.
An idea struck her. She seized it like a drowning woman in the churning waves. She didn't know what it
was attached to, but it was her only hope.
She spun on her heels and hurried back the way she had come, her head bowed, barely daring to think
about her plan. It could fail so easily. If al'Thor really was as dominated by his rage as she feared, then
even this would not help him.
But if he really was that far gone, then there wasn't anything that would help him. That meant she had
nothing to lose. Nothing but the world itself.
Pushing her way through crowds and occasionally taking to the muddy street to avoid them, she arrived at
the mansion. Some Aiel had taken the camp where Dobraine's armsmen had staged until his withdrawal.
They camped all about, some on the grounds, some in a wing of the mansion, others in nearby buildings.
Cadsuane made her way to the wing that belonged to the Aiel, and
A PROMISE TO LEWS THERIN
477
she was not stopped. She enjoyed privileges among the Aiel that none of the other sisters had been given.
She found Sorilea and the other Wise Ones in conference in one of the libraries. They were sitting on the
floor, of course. Sorilea nodded to Cadsuane as she entered. She was all bone, thin and leathery, yet never
could a person think her frail. Not with those eyes, set into a face that, despite being worn by wind and
sun, was too young for her age. How was it that the Wise Ones could live so long, yet not obtain the Aes
Sedai agelessness? That was a question Cadsuane had not been able to answer.
She lowered her hood and joined the Wise Ones, seating herself on the floor, eschewing cushions. She
looked Sorilea in the eyes. "I have failed," she said.
The Wise One nodded, as if she had thought this same thing. Cadsuane forced herself not to show her
annoyance.
"There is no shame in failure," Bair said, "when that failure was the fault of another."
Amys nodded. "The Car'a'earn is stubborn beyond all men, Cadsuane Sedai. You have no toh toward us."
"Shame or toh," Cadsuane said, "it will all be irrelevant soon. But I have a plan. Will you help me?"
The Wise Ones shared a look among them.
"What is this plan?" Sorilea asked.
Cadsuane smiled, then began to explain.
Rand glanced over his shoulder, watching Cadsuane scuttle away. She probably thought that he hadn't
noticed her hiding there at the side of the street. The cloak hid her face, but nothing could conceal that
self-assured posture, not even the clumsy footgear. Even as she hurried, she seemed in control, and others
moved out of her way reflexively.
She flirted with his prohibition, following him through the town like this. However, she had not shown
him her face, and so he let her go. It had probably been a poor move to exile her in the first place, but
there was no going back now. He would just have to control his temper in the future. Keep it wrapped in
ice, steaming deep inside his chest, pulsing like a second heart.
He turned back to the docks. Perhaps there was no reason for him to check on the food distribution
directly. However, he had found that the grain had a distinctly higher chance of getting to those who
needed it if
478
THE GATHERING STORM
everyone knew they were being watched. This was a people who had been without a king for too long;
they deserved to see that someone was in control.
Upon reaching the wharf, he turned Tai'daishar to angle along the back of the docks, moving at an
unhurried pace. He glanced at the Asha'man riding beside him. Naeff had a strong, rectangular face and
the lean build of a warrior; he'd been a soldier in the Queen's Guard of Andor before resigning in disgust
during the reign of "Lord Gaebril." Naeff had found his way to the Black Tower, and now wore both the
Sword and Dragon.
Eventually, Rand would probably have to either let Naeff return to his Aes Sedai—he had been among the
first ones bonded—or bring her to him. He was loath to have another Aes Sedai nearby, although
Nelavaire Demasiellin, a Green, was relatively pleasant as Aes Sedai went.
"Continue," Rand said to Naeff as they rode. The Asha'man had been running messages and meeting with
the Seanchan with Bashere.
"Well, my Lord," Naeff said, "it's just my gut feeling, but I don't think they'll accept Katar for the meeting
place. They always grow difficult when Lord Bashere or I mention it, claiming they will have to seek
further instructions from the Daughter of the Nine Moons. Their tones imply that the 'instructions' will be
that the location is unacceptable."
Rand spoke softly. "Katar is neutral ground, neither in Arad Doman nor deep within Seanchan lands."
"I know, my Lord. We've tried. I promise that we have."
"Very well," Rand said. "If they continue to be bullheaded about this, I will choose another location.
Return to them and say we will meet at Falme."
From behind, Flinn whistled quietly.
"My Lord," Naeff said. "That's well within the Seanchan border."
"I know," Rand said, glancing at Flinn. "But it has a ... certain historic significance. We will be safe; these
Seanchan are bound rigidly by their honor. They will not attack if we arrive under a banner of truce."
"Are you certain?" Naeff asked quietly. "I don't like the way they look at me, my Lord. There's contempt
in their eyes, every one of them. Contempt and pity, as if I'm some lost hound, searching for scraps
behind the inn. Burn me, but it makes me sick."
"They've got those collars of theirs handy, my Lord," Flinn said. "Flag of truce or not, they'll be itching to
bind us all."
Rand closed his eyes, keeping the rage inside, feeling the salty sea air blow across him. He opened his
eyes to a sky bounded by dark clouds.
A PROMISE TO LEWS THERIN
479
He would not think of the collar at his neck, his hand strangling Min. That was the past.
He was harder than steel. He could not be broken.
"We must have peace with the Seanchan," he said. "Differences notwithstanding."
"Differences?" Flinn asked. "I don't rightly think I'd call that a difference, my Lord. They want to enslave
every one of us, maybe execute us. They think it's a favor to do either!"
Rand held the man's gaze. Flinn was not rebellious; he was as loyal as they came. But still Rand made
him wilt and bow his head. Dissension could not be tolerated. Dissension and lies had brought him to the
collar. No more.
"I'm sorry, my Lord," Flinn finally said. "Burn me if Falme isn't a fine choice! You'll have them watching
the skies with fear, you will."
"Go with the message now, Naeff," Rand said. "I want this settled."
Naeff nodded, turning his horse and trotting away from the column, a small group of Aiel guards joining
him. One could only Travel from a place one knew well, and so he couldn't simply leave from dockside.
Rand continued his ride,